Julie's Misadventures
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Stories about the year Julie served as Roarke's assistant.  Follows 'Miranda'.   Note: the 'mis' in the second word of the title is supposed to have parentheses around it, but FF wouldn't allow it.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _I'm back finally! My stepsons are in school and I have more free time each day, so I have finally gotten a new story under way. This time I'm concentrating on fifth-season episodes involving Julie. Since Tattoo tended to be mentioned only in passing, or sometimes completely ignored, in the Julie stories, I've made a point of inserting him in my "supporting" scenes where I can. My plan is to also include some openers of episodes where Julie appeared in the beginning but wasn't involved in the fantasies, as well. This is still a work in progress, but I will write and post as often as I can, so keep an eye out. Enjoy!_

_Thanks also to Kyryn1 for her recent reviews on several stories. It's great to hear from you again, and I look forward to more reviews when you have a chance!

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§ § § - September 2, 2006

Roarke stepped into the study from the terrace to find a surprisingly large group of eager faces waiting for him. "How long have the seven of you been gathered here?" he asked, surveying the six adults and an eager first-grader sitting around the tea table. "And what have you two done with my grandchildren?"

Christian and Leslie, the recipients of this question, grinned at him. "They've had a long hard day playing with Haruko," Leslie said. "She didn't have any weekend homework, since school just started yesterday, so she had time and energy to burn. She knocked out the triplets all right, but she torpedoed herself in the process, so I called Katsumi and arranged to have her sleep in the spare room with the kids. She'll be here for breakfast."

Roarke chuckled. "That should please Mariki. Very well, then, I suppose you're all more than ready to begin telling tales out of school." He slanted a teasing look at Julie, who rolled her eyes amidst the others' laughter.

"Are you sure you don't have any pressing issues with the fantasies, uncle?" Julie asked, clearly trying to deflect the attention away from herself.

Roarke smiled at her and assured her, "I've just made checks on both fantasies for the specific purpose of freeing myself to join in the discussion. Everything is well in hand for the night, and our guests are well aware that they are now on their own until at least mid-morning tomorrow." At Christian's raised eyebrow, he added, "Oh, don't worry. As with most guests, their fantasies are only as dangerous as they make them."

"I could argue with that," Christian observed, "but since Leslie's told me what the fantasies are this weekend, I'll refrain this time and merely agree with you. So I understand that this evening our focus is on Julie."

"Thanks a lot," Julie said grumpily.

Leslie grinned at her. "Oh, come on, Julie, think of it as a chance to relive some fond memories. I mean, you may not have been the most experienced assistant Father ever had, but you didn't do _everything_ wrong, you know."

Roarke eyed Julie with amused surprise. "Is that why you're so reluctant to participate, Julie? Surely your memories aren't all negative ones."

"You can't tell me you didn't enjoy your time working for uncle," said Miranda, who had slipped into calling Roarke by this appellation as easily as her brother and sister-in-law did. "How could you not?"

Julie sighed. "Well, I guess you'd have to know something about my background to understand. Have you ever heard of the MacNabb family? Did your father ever tell you about them?"

Miranda nodded and said, "Yes, he mentioned them once. One of the few times he spoke of Rogan, he mentioned that he had a feeling there might be some MacNabb blood in him. So I know what you mean by referencing them. Are you part of the family?"

"Yup. MacNabb was my maiden name. I have a much older sister named Delphine, who has the fabled MacNabb magical powers. But I don't." She explained why, while Josh and Miranda listened curiously; even Christian was interested, having not really known before. "Delphine was born while the gene was 'active', but I came along too late to inherit the powers, and as a result she took three dozen different kinds of advantage of me all the while we were growing up. She could've easily handled all the things uncle asks of his assistants, but I was…well, let's just say I wasn't exactly equipped."

"Ah, me lass, your talents just lay in other directions, that's all," Rogan soothed her. "I think you should just chalk that year up to an interesting experience in your life and stop being so down about it. You were eager an' willing, right? And it's not as if you blew up the island or something similar."

Julie threw him a dirty look. "You're no help at all, Callaghan. Look, I can see you're all determined to do this, so I guess you might as well get it over with."

As if taking pity on her, Roarke chuckled and focused on Leslie. "Suppose we begin with an easy one, hm? Do you remember the first fantasy Julie helped us with, Leslie?"

She nodded. "Yeah…that was a pretty interesting weekend. Though, considering the fact that one of the guests was a magician, I wonder now if Julie didn't think…" She let her voice trail off and her eyes slide cautiously in Julie's direction.

Julie thought back, then snickered. "Oh yeah, that one. I suppose the reason I wasn't upset about the irony of uncle's bringing a magician here for my first-ever assistant's job was that the guy wasn't much good at it." They all laughed, and she gave her hands a little palms-up toss. "I guess I'll start."

§ § § - October 24, 1981

It was Julie who met Roarke and Leslie at the porch steps that sunny Saturday morning. "What happened to Tattoo?" Leslie asked, peering back at the house as the car pulled away; she had heard him ringing the bell in the tower, after all.

"He's making preparations for next weekend's fantasies," Roarke explained. "He appreciated the break, and said it would give Julie a chance to really become accustomed to her new position." For some reason he smiled. "Are you excited, Julie?"

The perky twenty-one-year-old nodded vigorously. "I can't wait to get started. I'm so grateful to you, uncle…I mean, Mr. Roarke. This is such a huge favor you're doing me, helping me save money to open my bed-and-breakfast inn."

"Everyone deserves the chance to make his or her dream come true," Roarke remarked as the car coasted down the Ring Road. "And it will be to our advantage as well, having extra accommodations for our guests."

The car pulled up in the little dirt turnaround at the plane dock, and Roarke, Leslie and Julie disembarked. Leslie still had a feeling of being a junior apprentice because she was wearing a calf-length white skirt trimmed in a black eyelet ruffle and a white blouse with black trim and buttons and three-quarter-length sleeves, while Julie sported a three-piece suit, complete with tie, that was a copy of Roarke's. Leslie didn't say anything about it, however; to be honest, she rather preferred her own outfit. She wasn't sure she would have been able to pull off wearing a tie.

"Smiles, everyone, smiles," Roarke called, as he always did, and signaled at the band to begin. As he tended to do with Tattoo, he cast a glance at Julie's suit jacket, and she quickly buttoned it while the attendants at the dock watched a dark-haired young man in glasses and a very seventies-looking blue plaid jacket climb out of the plane's hatch. "Mr. Timothy Potter, from Cleveland, Ohio."

"What's his fantasy?" Julie asked, peering dubiously at the jacket.

"Mr. Potter is an amateur conjurer," Roarke explained. "He entertains at hospitals and at children's parties with card tricks and producing a stuffed rabbit out of a hat, and other familiar prestidigitations." Leslie nodded; she had seen one such performer at her friend Myeko's little sister Sayuri's birthday party recently.

Julie commented, "Oh, that's nice…he gives pleasure to people!"

"Sometimes," said Roarke, catching the girls' attention. "That's debatable. Unfortunately, Mr. Potter is not a very good conjurer. You might say his sleight of hand is slight indeed, and his magic…is tragic." Julie snickered behind one hand at his totally poker-faced delivery of these puns; Leslie simply rolled her eyes, in that teenage way Roarke occasionally commented on with mock disparagement and a twinkle in his eye. Meantime, with the native girls watching him, Timothy Potter waved a hand over the pineapple shell that held his drink, closed his palm over the fruit and other frou-frou that decorated it, then opened it and displayed it at the laughing young women. Then his face fell as he realized he'd merely gotten the top of a miniature parasol stuck in his palm.

Julie blinked while Leslie slowly shook her head, and exclaimed softly, "Oh! I'm afraid he blew it."

"Yes, as usual," said Roarke through a resigned sigh. "That is why his fantasy is to be not just a good magician, but to be the very best."

"I don't know about that," said Julie doubtfully.

"Yeah, that's gonna be a challenge all right," Leslie agreed, watching Potter pause in front of a perch holding a parrot and a macaw that both seemed to be peering at the man as if afraid he might try to turn them into handkerchiefs. She stole a glance at her guardian, just in time to see his concerned expression shift into expectation. Turning her attention to the dock, she saw a tall woman with shoulder-length, spun-gold hair exit the hatch, a cheerfully anticipatory look on her striking features.

"What a stunning lady!" said Julie, impressed.

"Yes, indeed. Her name is Ms. Marjorie Denton." Roarke paused and studied the girls before asking on impulse, "Would either of you care to guess her profession?"

"Movie star?" Julie offered. "Maybe an actress who wants to write the Great American Novel?"

"I'd say a fashion designer," Leslie ventured when Roarke shifted his glance to her.

He smiled. "Would you believe, a bus driver from Philadelphia?"

"No way!" Leslie blurted.

"Really? A bus driver?" Julie asked in astonishment.

"Yes," said Roarke, amused again. "She is one of that new breed of women who believe they can do most things as well as men. And therein lies her problem. She has found that there is an unexpected price to such beliefs, and she hungers for the old days when women were treated with grace and chivalry."

Julie peered at Marjorie Denton and asked skeptically, "What's her fantasy, to wear a crinoline?" Leslie laughed at that.

"No, Julie, Ms. Denton's dream is simply to meet the most exciting, gallant and virile man in the world," Roarke replied, almost beaming as he spoke.

"Oh geez," Leslie said, catching their quizzical attention. "I can see it now. Here comes Casanova, with an eye to seducing every female on the island."

Julie clearly disagreed. "Well…I don't know about you, Leslie, but I can certainly sympathize with that fantasy."

Roarke peered at her with interest. "Can you, Julie? Well…" He drew in a breath, tamping down the amusement that had flared up in his dark eyes, and turned back to Marjorie Denton, who stood with drink in hand, watching them talk. "Unfortunately, to fulfill her fantasy will expose her to dangers she cannot anticipate." On Leslie's curious frown and Julie's worried, confused look, Roarke accepted his usual glass from a native girl and lifted it in the weekly toast, one of the few things that never changed from year to year. "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

‡ ‡ ‡

"I'm so grateful to you, Mr. Roarke. If you only knew how desperate I am to be treated like a woman." Marjorie Denton spoke as Roarke, Leslie and Julie came into the inner foyer at the main house; Julie shut the door behind them while they paused for a moment. "Someone with real manners—someone to bring out my femininity."

Roarke smiled. "That, I promise you will experience. And," he said, bringing her into the room with Leslie and Julie following, "in what better way could I satisfy your fantasy than to transport you back to the very days when such men were plentiful?"

Marjorie's face lit with excited wonder. "You mean…back in time?" she gasped.

"Exactly," said Roarke. "Julie?" Leslie paused beside Roarke's desk to watch Julie head for the time-travel-room door; Roarke cast her a beckoning glance and a smile, which was all the invitation Leslie needed to join them. Roarke ushered her in ahead of him and closed the door on a few plumes of fog that tried to escape.

Marjorie zeroed right in on the suit of armor mounted on a partial bust of a horse in the corner of the room, ignoring all the other trappings. Leslie's attention was snapped back to the moment when Roarke spoke again. "Remember, Ms. Denton, you are going back to a time when human life was held very cheaply. Although men gave special attention to the ladies—that trait you so admire—women were also almost slaves, subject to many restrictions, and sometimes…" He let the pause stretch before concluding in a tone of light warning, "…great cruelty."

Marjorie smiled indulgently and shook her head. "You can't frighten me, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke absorbed this with a broad smile, the sort of smile that always made Leslie ever so slightly nervous and started her wondering what he was _really_ up to. "I see," he said. "Then…step through that door, Ms. Denton." He indicated a door at the left-hand wall of the room, almost hidden behind the suit of armor.

For the first time Marjorie's face took on a faintly apprehensive look under the determination, before she turned and slowly paced to the door that waited for her. "Good luck," Julie offered in a low, almost mysterious tone, her bright grin somehow adding a subtle tone of _you're gonna need it!_ to her aura. Marjorie peered at her over her shoulder and smiled, gamely if a bit nervously, before slipping through the door and pushing it quietly shut.

The three were still for a moment or two; then Julie blinked and straightened herself, slanting a faintly nervous glance at Roarke. "How'd I do?"

As if surprised, he turned to her. "You did just fine, Julie, just fine."

Leslie added, "You sounded like she was going to really need that good luck you wished her. Nice bit of mockery there."

Roarke's surprise became genuine, while Julie stared at her with sudden outrage. "I wasn't mocking her! I was being very sincere!"

Leslie cleared her throat. "Well, I didn't exactly mean _mocking_…I mean…you just sounded so, you know, mysterious. Even warning a little." She dropped her voice and managed to produce a fair imitation of Julie's earlier words. _"Good luck."_

Julie gasped and stared at Roarke. "Did I really sound like that?"

"I must confess, Julie, as a matter of fact, you did indeed," Roarke confirmed with a smile, winking surreptitiously at Leslie. "We'd better get back into the study so that we'll be in time to send Mr. Potter on his way."

"On his way to do what?" Julie wanted to know. "Ruin some showman's reputation or something by appearing in a revue?"

"I daresay the only reputation Mr. Potter will be ruining is his own," Roarke replied cryptically, gesturing the girls out ahead of him before closing the door to the time-travel room and making his way to his desk. Julie and Leslie looked at each other.

Just then there was a knock on the door and Julie hurried up to answer it, then got a _speak of the devil_ look about her. "It's Mr. Potter."

"Come in, come in," Roarke invited warmly, while Timothy Potter stepped around Julie and down into the foyer. "Welcome, Mr. Potter, may we get you anything?"

"No thanks," Potter said quickly, his expression eager and hopeful. "I just wanted to start by saying thanks for granting my fantasy, Mr. Roarke. I know I'll get better with your help. I have to."

Roarke regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "If I may, Mr. Potter, I'd like to see an example of the tricks you normally perform."

Potter hurriedly wiped the abject surprise off his face when he saw Julie's and Leslie's poorly smothered grins, and said, "Sure, I'd be glad to, Mr. Roarke. Uh…tell you what, why don't you all sit down." Roarke promptly took him up on this offer, stepping around a large, weatherbeaten old trunk that sat on the table in front of the red velvet sofa below the shuttered windows and taking a seat. Julie and Leslie sat one on either side of him. Potter dug into a pocket of his already-out-of-style sport jacket and extracted a deck of playing cards, which he removed from their case, shuffled, and then stacked in his hand. Then he fanned them out and extended them to Leslie. "Take a card, miss…what's your name?"

"Leslie Hamilton," she told him.

"Nice to meet you, Leslie. Go ahead and pick a card." Potter smiled encouragingly at her, and she smiled back involuntarily, thinking he looked very nice behind those glasses, before reaching out and working a single card from the deck. She displayed it at Roarke and Julie, looked at it herself, then slid it back into the deck.

They watched then as Potter stacked the deck again, took a couple of steps behind the table, and then made an elaborate show of waving his hand at the deck in what was apparently supposed to be a "magical" way. Leslie was somewhat surprised when one card in the middle of the deck actually began to rise up out of it. When it was halfway up, Potter stopped it and turned the deck around to face his hosts. "Is that your card?" he asked Leslie with a broad, expectant smile.

"No," Leslie admitted a bit reluctantly. The featured card was the eight of hearts, but she had picked the six of spades. She felt compelled to apologize. "Sorry about that."

Potter took it quite well, she thought. "Oh well." He chuckled, partly nervous, partly resigned. "That's all right…I…" He put the deck aside and focused on Roarke again, starting over. "I practice every day, but I guess I-I'm just naturally clumsy." His hosts looked at one another and then at him with interested sympathy. "You see, the reason I do my magic is because, uh…I have no family of my own, and I like to make people feel good." Roarke nodded understanding. "Makes me feel close to them. Unfortunately, I am the Great Butterfingers." He released a tiny self-deprecating chuckle. "That's me."

Roarke nodded again, then turned to his goddaughter. "Julie?"

"Hm?" At his expectant look, she seemed to remember what she was supposed to be doing. "Oh." She arose and opened a small black box in her hand, lifting out a large key on a chain and handing it to him. "Maybe this will open up some new possibilities for you."

"Yes," said Roarke, taking over. "The key unlocks that trunk, which is full of assorted paraphernalia, items of wardrobe—but most importantly, personal journals which contain the secrets of all the greatest magic tricks of all time." At that, Potter brightened considerably, hope filling his mobile features. "And who is to say that some of those great stage magicians of the past did not, in fact, possess real magic, Mr. Potter?"

Their guest was beside himself. "That's terrific, Mr. Roarke! I-I can't wait!" With that, he started to bend down to insert the key into the lock.

Roarke stopped him. "Uh…first, take the trunk to your bungalow, Mr. Potter. Study its contents—study well. You see, I have arranged for a special matinee performance for you this very afternoon."

"What, do you mean a real performance?" Potter exclaimed.

"Yes," Roarke assured him. "So I suggest you prepare yourself as thoroughly as you possibly can." His smile looked a lot like that odd one he'd aimed at Marjorie Denton, Leslie thought, before his expression changed and he arose. "There is a jeep waiting outside to help you take the trunk with you."

"Fantastic," Potter bubbled. "Gosh, thanks loads, Mr. Roarke. This is gonna be the greatest show I ever put on." Upon hearing this remark, Julie and Leslie exchanged glances, but neither of them spoke till Potter had lugged the trunk out of the study and Roarke had closed the door behind him, with a decidedly amused look on his handsome features.

Then Leslie said, "The greatest show he ever put on? That sure won't be much of a performance." Julie let out a bark of laughter.

Roarke eyed them reprovingly. "Leslie Susan, have you forgotten? This is Fantasy Island! Not to mention that that was rather rude."

"But accurate," Julie pointed out, irrepressible.

Roarke sighed and conceded with great reluctance, "Yes, perhaps you're right. But I suggest you two give the man a chance to prove himself. That is, after all, what he's here for, and it would be commendable if you two would keep that in mind."

Contrite, Leslie nodded. "Okay, Mr. Roarke. So I guess that means we'll be going to the town theater later on and watching him, huh?"

Roarke smiled. "You might invite some of your friends, if you like."

Tattoo came back to have lunch with Roarke and the girls, and took in the stories of the two fantasies so far with interest. "Sounds like Ms. Denton is happy as a clam," he said, before his round face took on some doubt. "What time's the magic show, boss?"

"Two o'clock, my friend. Why?" Roarke inquired.

Tattoo was silent for a moment, digesting this, before shrugging. "I don't know. I guess something just doesn't _feel_ right to me."

"That's funny," said Leslie slowly. "I wonder if my friends thought the same thing. I called everybody up and asked them if they were interested in coming to the show with me, and they all said they had other things to do." She started to add something, hesitated, then gave in when she noticed Roarke's, Tattoo's and Julie's questioning looks. "Well, Camille even said that magicians give her nightmares."

Julie laughed, but Roarke and Tattoo exchanged glances. "That's interesting," the Frenchman commented. He peered at Leslie with interest. "What about you?"

"I don't have any problem with magicians," Leslie said, flicked her eyes in Roarke's direction and then added, "if they're good ones. This guy isn't."

Again Julie laughed, and this time Tattoo joined in; only Roarke was silent, frowning a little in contemplation. After a moment, when he became aware of the silence, he looked around at the threesome who gazed at him and said only, "We shall see. You'd better finish eating, we all have duties this afternoon."

Julie caught Leslie's eye and smiled reassuringly at her. "Hey, it's perfectly plausible that your friends had other plans for the day," she said. "Don't take it personally."

"I'm not," Leslie said. "I just thought it was kind of weird that all six of them had something else they had to do. Even Frida." The Swedish girl had only recently joined Julie's household and was already proving to be a hard worker.

Julie shrugged. "Actually, Frida's not the most sociable girl I ever met. She's very shy, and I think she'd rather stay in and do housework and homework than run around touching base with a bunch of classmates she doesn't know very well." She shrugged. "Anyway, I think the friends she hangs out with most of the time live on Coral Island."

Tattoo had been staring at her, and when Julie noticed, he spoke right away, his voice light as if to defuse tension. "Housework and homework! What's the difference?" he wanted to know. At that everyone laughed, even Leslie, who had to admit he had a point about the oddities of the English language.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - October 24, 1981

After lunch Tattoo returned to the preparations he had been making for Roarke, while Julie went back home to look in on Frida and do a few other things around the house. Roarke took Leslie into Amberville, where Fantasy Island's theater was located in the town square, and checked his gold pocket watch before leading her to the backstage door. There was a short line of people out front waiting to get inside, filing past a sign that announced "The Great Potter". _"Great" might be questionable,_ Leslie couldn't help thinking as she followed Roarke to the wings, where they could see the stage set up with props and tables, ready for Timothy Potter's show.

"What time is it?" she asked her guardian, seeing the seats rapidly filling up with chattering patrons.

"Not quite two," Roarke answered, gazing across the stage into the wings on that side. "I'll be quite surprised if Mr. Potter doesn't appear; he doesn't seem the type to suffer stage fright." She giggled in surprise, and he glanced down at her and smiled.

At precisely two o'clock, the show got under way; Potter strolled onstage, decked out in a black suit with a cape lined in red. He wore a top hat, from which he proceeded to extract not only a rabbit—real, rather than stuffed, both Roarke and Leslie noted—but a hamster, a gerbil and even a puppy, to the audience's delight. Flush with what appeared to be his success, Potter then pulled forth a bunch of roses out of a large red handkerchief and performed a couple of other quick tricks that went over very well.

"Thank you, thank you," he said cheerfully, gazing out over the sea of faces; then he glanced to one side and cleared his throat before heading for the trunk that sat at stage left. "Uh…" he began, kneeling beside it and inserting the key in the lock, "I'm not exactly sure what's in here…" At that Leslie shot Roarke a disbelieving glance, then pulled her spine straight when she saw his expression grow startled and concerned. Potter went on ad-libbing in the meantime. "I haven't had a chance to check it all out." He lifted the lid. "Let's see." From where she stood with Roarke in the stage-right wings, Leslie could see a couple of photos of famous magicians pasted to the inside of the trunk lid, but not much of its contents otherwise.

"He doesn't know what's in there?" Leslie hissed incredulously to Roarke, letting the audience's rising murmuring cover her words. "He never even touched the trunk, did he?"

"It would appear not, my child," Roarke agreed heavily, never taking his eyes off the would-be showman. Leslie turned back in time to see Potter experimentally juggling a big, multi-colored silk cloth of some sort.

"Very pretty," he commented, then muttered, "What's this?" They watched him lift out a large silver ball, which when he pulled it apart yielded a pair of white doves that fluttered hastily into the stage-left wings, to an awed collective "Oh!" from the audience that was followed by a fanfare and then applause. Potter grinned sheepishly into the crowd, thanked them, then seemed to spot something else and reached into the trunk again.

"What's this?" he wondered aloud, lifting a very large old book and rising to his feet, staring at the cover. Leslie waited for him to blow the dust off it, which he did, to answering chuckles. But Roarke looked very worried, and she found herself rapidly dividing her attention between her guardian and his guest.

Potter opened the book to a random page and read aloud. " 'To Bring Forth ye Clever Beasts.' Well…" He looked up and offered, "Let's try it. _Encoom, encole, enkumitadas_…" Roarke looked very much as if he were about to call out to dissuade the man, but it was obvious he couldn't do it without disrupting Potter's stage performance; and all they could do was watch helplessly as Potter went on reading. _"Woon-dah, woon-dah."_

Before Leslie could devote even a fraction of her mind to wondering what language that spell was in, there was a rumbling from somewhere. Neither she nor Roarke had time to react before there was a boom, a large but short-lived flame, and a huge puff of white smoke that made her gasp and cringe violently back. Even Roarke took a step backward, but he never stopped watching the scene unfold before them.

There was a high-pitched squawking reminiscent of Chester the Chimp, who hadn't been heard from for quite some time now, and the smoke drifted away to reveal one of Chester's cousins…holding the hand of a very pretty blonde young woman dressed in something primitive that made Leslie wonder if she was Jane, lifted straight out of the Tarzan movies. The chimp chattered and the woman stared at a gaping Potter, while the audience marveled over Potter's accidental accomplishment and began to applaud. Roarke merely looked on, disapproval written all over his face.

The young woman approached a flabbergasted Potter. "Master? I'm your slave, Suba," she said in a soft, girlish but alluring voice. "What is your desire?" The chimp, Leslie noticed then, had abandoned Suba and was now sitting on Potter's foot.

"Uh…" Potter floundered, laughed nervously, then managed to gather himself enough to say, "What I want…what I really need…is for you to disappear." He turned a page while Suba looked at him expectantly. "But…I'm not sure where the formula is." He peered at the page in front of him, looked up, and for the first time noticed Roarke and Leslie over Suba's shoulder. Leslie automatically looked at her guardian, who nodded coolly at Potter.

"Uh—would you excuse me _just_ a moment," Potter said to Suba with a big false grin, and hastily extricated his foot from the chimp's grasp with a hurried "pardon me" before scuttling toward Roarke and Leslie. He tucked himself fully into the wings, never once looking at his bewildered audience. "Mr. Roarke," he blurted to his nodding host, "this is wonderful, I-I know, but what do I do now?"

"Surely the book instructs you," Roarke said, peering at the page without making any suggestions as to which part of the book might help the flustered young man. Sternly he met Potter's frantic gaze. "I warned you to study well, Mr. Potter. Now it appears that you are personally responsible for one chimpanzee and one very attractive young lady." He glanced out onto the stage, then concluded, "I wish you every success. Leslie?" With that he walked away towards the backstage dressing rooms, leaving Potter high and dry. Leslie took her chance to scurry after him when Potter shot a helpless look onto the stage; she felt a little like a coward, but she knew Potter had invited his troubles all by himself, and she had a feeling that even if she'd had any advice to give, Roarke would probably have disapproved of her giving it.

Back at the main house, Julie had returned and was just bringing in a huge pile of mail and a couple of packages. "Hi, uncle and Leslie," she greeted them cheerfully.

"Julie, remember," Roarke warned gently.

"It's okay here when there aren't any guests around, isn't it?" Julie asked winningly, grinning at him before attempting to lower her burden and thereby dumping the mail all over his desk. She cleared her throat when the envelopes slid and skittered across the desktop, several thwacking to the floor. "Oops."

While Julie reddened under Roarke's quietly reproachful look, Leslie ducked around the desk retrieving fallen mail. "Mr. Roarke, I can sort this stuff out for you if you want."

"Yes, thank you, Leslie," Roarke agreed, still watching Julie. "Well, my dear young lady, perhaps for now you'd be better off taking on some of Tattoo's usual duties. I need you to check on tonight's menu at the hotel and make sure the chef has everything he needs, and I'd also like you to contact the head groundskeeper about the trail behind the house here."

Julie bit her lip and admitted reluctantly, "I don't know the groundskeeper's name."

"Ambrose Hoskins," Roarke supplied, a bare trace of exasperation creeping into his tone. "You'll find him at the hotel as well—he pays great attention to the grounds there, and if he isn't there, he'll be tending to the lawns around the bungalows. I suggest you tackle these tasks post-haste."

"Right away, uncle…Mr. Roarke," Julie said, correcting herself hastily with a faint wince, and made herself scarce.

Roarke sighed and looked at Leslie, who was scooping together handfuls of mail and attempting to make several smaller stacks out of them. "Leslie, if you would, please remain here and take any calls, all right? It's time I checked on Ms. Denton."

"I'll be right here, Mr. Roarke, you can count on me," Leslie promised, feeling sorry for Julie. She could remember how clumsy she herself had been in her first few weeks on the island, and she was also well aware that she still made her share of mistakes; but at the same time, it was somewhat of a relief to know that she wasn't the only apparent klutz her guardian had to deal with right now.

He smiled. "Thank you. I'll be back soon." He turned and went into the time-travel room, taking care to close the door before gathering a long, hooded dark cape from the back of a chair and donning it in such a way as to conceal his clothing. Then he slipped through the door Marjorie Denton had gone through earlier.

He found himself one of only a bare few denizens of a small French pub; but through a window on the far side of the room, he could see Marjorie Denton's unmistakable flaxen hair, arranged in the pompadour and sausage curls popular in this time period. She was talking with a man dressed in red and black, with a face that seemed innocuous enough, almost doughy in some way, but which Roarke immediately recognized. He drifted toward the window and watched surreptitiously but closely; at this vantage point he could hear their conversation. The man invited Marjorie to his chateau, and without further ado she promptly accepted, her face lighting up with delight. Roarke allowed himself the briefest of inner smiles; his unique translation device was working nicely, as usual. It was one of the few things that had never yet failed him.

His thoughts were scattered as Marjorie approached the pub's back entrance and came inside, calling, "Innkeeper, my cloak!"

"I must warn you, mademoiselle," Roarke began in a low tone, turning toward her.

Marjorie stared at him in amazement. "Mr.—"

But he lifted a hand for silence, and she let the exclamation drop. Voice quiet but urgent, he said, "That man is evil." On Marjorie's disbelieving stare, he explained, "He has killed more than a hundred men in as many duels."

"Isn't that why I came here?" she countered. "To have men fight over me? He's invited me to his chateau for a visit." She took the cloak the innkeeper handed her, and without a word of farewell hurried out the door she'd just entered.

The innkeeper must have heard more than even Roarke had realized, for he turned to him and inquired, "You know this man, friar?"

Roarke nodded grimly. "The Marquis Philippe de Sade."

The innkeeper bobbed his head and agreed, "An evil man, like you told the lady."

"More than you can guess, my friend. He will sire a line which will produce the most infamous name in French history, and give rise to a new word describing cruelty."

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie thought Roarke looked very tired when he came back, with a length of black cloth slung over one arm. "Is Ms. Denton okay?" she asked.

Roarke looked up and frowned. "I am afraid she's managed to get herself involved with the Marquis de Sade," he said. Leslie stared blankly at him, trying to figure out where she'd heard that name before, while he continued, "I had hoped she could penetrate M'sieur de Bergerac's defenses, but apparently…"

That name, Leslie recognized. "I thought Cyrano de Bergerac was a _fictional_ character, but you just mentioned some guy named de Sade, and I thought he was real."

Roarke gave her a sharp look. "A fantasy is a fantasy, Leslie Susan." His tone clearly warned, _Do not question me!_ "And don't tell me you don't know who de Sade is!"

"I'm trying to remember why his name sounds familiar," she said defensively.

Roarke relented and smiled a little. "He is the source of the words _sadist_ and _sadism_," he said heavily, the smile falling away as he approached the desk. "And I am sorry to have to report that Ms. Denton has accepted an invitation from him to stay at his chateau."

Leslie remembered his words from that morning and bit her lip. "This must have been the danger she couldn't anticipate."

"Indeed," her guardian said. He draped the cloak over the back of a club chair, stared at it for a few moments, then drew in a deep breath and shook his head. "There is nothing I can do for her. She willingly went into the situation, without even waiting for me to fully explain who de Sade was. My only hope is that the lady has enough of her wits about her to make a clean escape from him."

The phone rang at that moment, startling Leslie and making Roarke look up with a couple of blinks. Leslie grabbed it and said, "Main house."

"Uh, hi there…Leslie, is it? Listen, this is Tim Potter. I'm at my bungalow and I've got a really big problem." In the background she heard a suspiciously familiar-sounding screech and had to grin; the chimpanzee was evidently somewhere nearby. "Do you think Mr. Roarke could spare a coupla minutes to come over and talk to me?"

"Sure, I think so," Leslie said. "I'll let him know."

"Thanks," said Potter and hung up. Leslie put the receiver back on the hook and told Roarke what Potter had said.

"A 'really big problem'?" Roarke repeated, looking amused for the first time in some time. "Perhaps this warrants investigation."

She laughed. "Can I come too?"

"Of course," he agreed. "You've made excellent progress in sorting the mail, Leslie, and I greatly appreciate it." Glowing under his praise, she arose from his chair and followed him out the French shutters, taking a trail that was a shortcut to the bungalows.

Tim Potter looked deeply relieved to see them when he let them in. "You say you have a problem?" Roarke inquired curiously.

"Yeah," Potter said. "I seem to have lost my…uh, my assistant."

"What?" Roarke said, completely blank. He swept a glance around the main room of the bungalow; the chimp sat on the sofa amidst a pile of fluffy white tissues, shredding another from a box it must have purloined from another room, but the animal was Potter's only companion.

"She's gone," Potter said helplessly, and at that the chimp jumped off the sofa and loped across the room to hug Potter's ankles. "See…I was trying to send Sabrina here back where she came from. Just Sabrina, without Suba." He indicated the chimp. "I figured all I had to do was read the original incantation backwards, and Sabrina would go back to wherever she came from. Only…it wasn't Sabrina who disappeared, it was Suba." He hung his head while Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "I don't know where Suba came from, Mr. Roarke…" Potter looked up then and finished in an impassioned burst, "But I tell you, just a couple of hours, and that girl changed my life!"

Roarke smiled broadly. "Many fortunate men have had that exciting experience, Mr. Potter," he said in a congratulatory tone.

"Exciting!" Potter burst out.

"Yes," said Roarke, surprised.

Potter approached him and Leslie with wide, desperate eyes. "Mr. Roarke, this isn't just excitement!"

"It's not?" Leslie asked curiously.

"No!" Potter hesitated. "I-I-I…well, I think I love Suba."

"Well, then, you must use your magical powers, Mr. Potter. This is your fantasy; you must find a way!" Roarke told him.

"I lack the finesse," Potter retorted, exasperated.

"Oh, no, no," Roarke assured him, following him as he fell onto the sofa and taking a seat on the arm. "You have not really given yourself a chance to find that out. You attempted too much too soon, that's all."

Potter squinted up at him like a chastened child. "You did warn me, didn't you." Roarke nodded, and Potter admitted wistfully, "I just got carried away."

"Yes," Roarke agreed. "Might I now suggest that I arrange for you to give another performance." Potter sat up in surprise, and Roarke offered, "Perhaps if we duplicate exactly—exactly—the conditions of the first show, you will be able to make the young lady appear again tonight."

"Well, then, we'd have—we'd have to be on stage…and maybe the audience is important too," Potter said excitedly.

"Oh, indeed," Roarke said. "But do your homework, Mr. Potter. _Plan!_ Memorize, huh?" He arose, his gently reproving gaze on the younger man.

"Oh, I will, Mr. Roarke, I promise!" Potter burst out. "And tonight on that stage, I will bring Suba back. I will make it happen!"

Roarke smiled and nodded at his utter confidence. "Good. Good. Then we'll leave you to it. Leslie?" She followed him up the steps to the door, where he unexpectedly turned to stare back into the room at a noise from Sabrina. Leslie and Potter both followed his gaze, only to see Sabrina staring bewildered at a live white rabbit on the floor. The chimp tossed aside the top hat from which it clearly had originated and leaped back and forth towards the equally befuddled rabbit, as though trying to decide what to do about it.

Roarke's and Potter's gazes met, and Potter smiled sheepishly and made a sort of shrug with his eyebrows. Leslie giggled; Roarke grinned and ushered her out the door.

‡ ‡ ‡

Which was how Roarke and Leslie found themselves back at the theater again that evening. Julie had asked if she could come along this time; Roarke had suggested it might be a good idea if she remained at the main house to take care of incoming calls and guests who might have questions. "But I'm supposed to be your assistant!" Julie protested. "That's what you're paying me for, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, and these are the types of duties I pay Tattoo for," Roarke replied without missing a beat. "You will be doing your job every bit as admirably by sitting here and tending to our guests as you would if you were with me every moment—the way you seem to feel you should be."

"Well, then, why's Leslie going with you?" Julie asked, sounding peevish.

Roarke, who had been turning to depart, paused and looked back at her with raised brows, as though surprised. "Surely you don't begrudge Leslie the chance to learn the business as well, my dear Julie?" he asked, in apparent amazement. "After all, I might point out that you took this job specifically for the purpose of earning money to open your inn, as is your dream. You don't plan to remain in this job for more than a year, now, do you? That was your stated intention, if you'll recall. Furthermore, Leslie spends the better part of her week in school, and is unable to spend as much time as I know she'd like in her own duties. It's a chance for her to absorb the vagaries of the vocation to whatever extent she can, knowing that she plans to remain a part of it after she completes her schooling." He took in Julie's broadsided expression and smiled. "Is that explanation satisfactory?"

"Uh…yeah, I guess so, uncle," Julie mumbled, looking dazed.

"Excellent. Leslie and I will return within two hours, and after that you may return home for the evening," Roarke promised. "We'll see you then. Come along, Leslie."

Thinking back on this conversation, Leslie had to wonder if maybe Julie was jealous in some way. _Or else maybe she just had different expectations from the job,_ she surmised, gazing unseeingly at the stage while she ruminated. Either way, she was glad Roarke hadn't belittled whatever small contribution she could make to his business. She squeezed his hand in thanks, earning a smile and a faintly questioning look from him. About to explain, she glanced out onto the stage when a commotion went up and applause began, and promised, "I'll tell you about it later."

"Very well," he agreed tranquilly and directed his attention to the stage, where Tim Potter was just strolling out from stage left. Their slightly anxious gazes remained on him throughout the various opening tricks of his performance; they relaxed a little as the show progressed flawlessly, but both waited tensely for the main attraction.

About fifteen minutes into the show, Potter stopped, faced the crowd and moved upstage to address them directly. "Ladies and gentlemen…those of you who saw my first performance will recall that I made a young lady appear out of nowhere." There were a number of murmurs of recognition, and some people clapped. "Thank you. Unfortunately…she's lost again." The audience seemed to think he was joking; laughter rippled across the tables. "Her name's Suba. I'm going to try to make her reappear in exactly the same way as I made her appear before. Everything will be the same." Potter paused, letting his hopeful gaze drift across the audience, while Roarke and Leslie watched intently. "Can you help me do that?"

In reply the audience began to clap for him again. He smiled and thanked them, then drew in a breath and gathered himself while the crowd quieted and Leslie and Roarke gazed on. Closing his eyes, Timothy Potter chanted deliberately, "_Encoom, encole, enkumitadas_…_woon-dah, woon-dah." _Just before he spoke the last phrase, he opened his eyes and peered pleadingly into the rafters, as though begging someone for help.

There was a boom, exactly as there had been that afternoon, and a flash of light with a lot of smoke. The audience gasped and applauded again as the smoke cleared away, but Roarke stiffened and Leslie gasped softly, "Uh-oh." Suba stood on stage right enough—but she was transparent!

Potter turned to look and brightened when he saw her. "Suba," he said, approaching her with outstretched arms. "Come to me!"

"I can't," Suba protested, looking down at her ghostlike self. "Help me!"

"Hold on, Suba," Potter encouraged. "Don't let go!"

"I can't help it." Already the pretty blonde girl's image had begun to fade away, her form winking in and out as though the electricity were failing. "I love you, Tim. I'll always love you. Goodbye," she murmured, and with that vanished altogether.

The audience began to chatter in surprised confusion, and Potter's hands fell, his head drooping. Without another word, he left the stage, shuffling slowly towards Roarke and Leslie. Sabrina huddled at their feet, looking as dejected as Potter did when he said hopelessly, "Mr. Roarke…I've lost her. Forever."

Roarke and Leslie watched him walk away, slowly, defeatedly. Roarke looked at Leslie, who tipped her head pleadingly at him; all he could do was shake his own head, take Sabrina by the hand, and led both Leslie and the chimp out of the theater.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - October 24, 1981

"Ah, so that's the reason you squeezed my hand in the theater," Roarke remarked. He and Leslie were strolling leisurely along a trail in the moonlight; Sabrina had pulled away from them as soon as they'd exited the theater and loped rapidly off, as if certain of where she was going. Roarke had decided to follow the chimp, and Leslie had wondered why at first, before deciding he probably had a good reason. She had taken the chance to explain about Julie's protests earlier and her gratitude that he had bolstered what little contribution she could make to the fantasy-granting enterprise.

"Yeah, that's it," she confirmed. "It made me feel a lot better…you know how much homework I've been getting this year. It blew my mind that I was able to finish this weekend's homework at school yesterday so I could devote more time to this fantasy."

"It helped me as well," Roarke said lightly, grinning at her. "I told Julie when she officially started working for me that she would find herself performing quite a few 'go-fer' duties in the beginning. It seems she forgot that."

Leslie grinned back, and might have replied, except that they could now hear a voice in the near distance. Roarke stopped and listened carefully, and then glanced at Leslie with a knowing little smile. "There's Mr. Potter, not far ahead."

"…I'm gonna make myself disappear, exactly as I made you disappear in the bungalow," they heard him saying aloud. Sabrina's protesting whimpers greeted that, but Potter went on as though she weren't there. "It'll be my last trick ever. I hope it works…maybe I'll be out there wherever you are. Wherever that is."

Roarke and Leslie advanced far enough to see that Potter was sitting on a bench in a small clearing, the magic book open in his lap, with Sabrina huddled beside him, still making noises as if to try to dissuade him from his intention. Sure enough, when Potter began reading _"Woon-dah, woon-dah"_ from the page, Sabrina picked at the book, trying to lift a section as if to turn it. Exasperated, Potter scolded, "Sabrina, please don't do that. Stop it."

"No," Roarke contradicted, stepping out of the bushes and startling Potter. Leslie stood a few paces back, watching avidly. "Let her, Mr. Potter. Let Sabrina turn the page."

Potter lifted his eyebrows in lieu of a resigned shrug and capitulated. "All right." His voice was soft and listless. "Go ahead." The three humans watched as he allowed Sabrina to grasp a block of pages and push them over; the chimp made an odd little pointing motion as if to tell him which passage to read.

"Read it, Mr. Potter," Roarke urged gently.

Potter looked doubtful, but he did as told. _"Wor-kole, brute, wor-kole brat-lay. Stemple, wor-kole, stemple wart."_ At least, that was what the words sounded like to Leslie. However ridiculous they were, they worked: for there was a telltale rumble of warning that allowed her enough time to brace herself and clap her hands over her ears before the boom, flash and blast of smoke appeared. And when it was gone, there was the pretty blonde, beaming.

"Suba!" Potter cried in delight, and they hugged and kissed happily, reunited at last. Roarke watched with a broad smile, then turned to Leslie and ushered her quietly away down another path that would take them home.

Leslie glanced behind them several times as they retreated, and finally Roarke noticed. "What's wrong, Leslie?"

"What happened to Sabrina?" she asked. "It's like when Suba came back, she vanished. And after helping Mr. Potter get Suba back, too."

Roarke only smiled. "Perhaps you'd better come back and prepare to get some sleep. You've had an exciting day." The smile held through the look she shot him, and all she could do was give in. "Besides, I have a little visit to make to the past."

Back at the main house, she and Julie watched Roarke don the hooded cape once more; it was so long that it dragged the floor and completely hid his normal clothing. "So what's happening back there that you have to go and supervise?" Leslie wanted to know.

"And why can't I help you out?" Julie persisted.

"Because it's dangerous," Roarke replied, leveling Julie with a particular look that made the young woman sigh in frustration. "It's quite dangerous enough for those already involved, without bringing you into it as well. Julie, as I said, you may return home for the night, if you wish."

Julie snorted. "No, I don't wish. What I _wish_ is to stay right here and find out what's happening, and both Leslie and I expect to hear all about it as soon as you get back!"

Roarke raised his brows but barely reacted otherwise, except to shrug slightly and nod once. "Very well. I'll return as soon as I can." Julie and Leslie watched him retreat into the time-travel room and close the door after him.

When he was safely shut away, Julie eyed the younger girl. "Haven't you ever been tempted to sneak in there after him and find out what the heck he's doing?"

"Sure I have," Leslie said with a shrug of her own. "But I tried it one time, and after he stopped being mad at me, he explained to me exactly why it's not a good idea."

Julie squinted at her, as if not sure whether to believe her. "Oh yeah?"

"Yup. Well, see, this was last year. Some woman from the town in California where I used to live was trying to decide if she wanted to move back there, and she went back in time to help her make the decision. It was during the period when I lived there with my parents and sisters, and I thought if I could sneak through, I'd get to see my mother one last time. But Mr. Roarke caught me before I got very far, and gave me a _loooooong_ explanation about why he didn't want me doing that."

"Oh." Julie absorbed this for a moment, then seemed to deflate, thumping her elbow on the desktop and propping her chin in her hand. "I guess that's that, then."

Leslie grinned at her. "If you're that bored, I can tell Mr. Roarke, and he'll come up with a whole bunch of extra stuff for you to do so you're not bored anymore."

Julie gave her a narrow sidelong look. "No thanks, I'll pass." Leslie laughed and made herself comfortable in her usual chair, picking up a stack of that day's mail to occupy herself with while she and Julie waited.

Roarke approached a door in a deserted hallway of the French chateau into which he had stepped, hearing voices behind it: a confident female and a self-deprecating, disparaging male. "I fear you have picked a poor champion, _mademoiselle_. A thousand gallons of Rhenish wine have created this monument; you cannot expect to disperse them in a moment." Roarke smiled wryly to himself, remembering all too well the way de Bergerac had looked the last time he'd seen the man, with the gentle pot belly created by too much wine and too much inactivity, born of depression over the elusive Roxanne.

But Marjorie Denton carried on as if he hadn't said a word. "You make me feel so proud! Risking your life—for me." There was a strange current of self-satisfaction in her voice, as if at last somebody in her fantasy was behaving the way she'd expected. Before their discourse could proceed any further, Roarke opened the doors.

Cyrano de Bergerac turned around, his features growing wry with recognition. "Come to chide me again, brother, or to say my last rites?"

Clad in the long, concealing friar's robe, Roarke only said calmly, "On the contrary. I come to comfort and encourage you."

De Bergerac was unimpressed. "It would take new eyes and a fresh set of muscles to do that," he commented.

"Victory comes not only from strength and skill," Roarke said, moving into the room, "but from a man's mind. If he thinks he's going to lose, he surely will." He saw de Bergerac's expression change subtly and urged, "Think about that."

De Bergerac turned away as if to ruminate on Roarke's words, and Marjorie took the opportunity to approach her host in her own turn. She eyed him expectantly, and he advised, "You realize I have no control over the outcome."

Marjorie looked worried for the first time. "You mean…he might lose?"

"In this age, 'lose' is another word for 'die'."

Shock seemed to ooze over her face like spilled paint as she turned to peer over her shoulder at de Bergerac, who was absorbed in feinting rapidly with his sword, his mind elsewhere entirely. Helplessly she turned back to Roarke, who went on, "Chivalry is a beautiful concept, Ms. Denton, until you're on its cutting edge."

"But it's only a fantasy, Mr. Roarke," she protested. "Can't you do something?"

Patiently Roarke gave her the answer he'd given so many before her, and would give to so many after her. "Alas, once a fantasy is under way, it's out of my hands. But have faith in yourself, Ms. Denton—and in your love. Love is the overwhelming force of the universe. It transcends all barriers and overcomes all obstacles." She stared at him, her face still as if with discovery, and he smiled faintly before hearing two sets of footsteps enter the room behind him. Without turning to see who the newcomers were, Roarke raised his voice a little and informed de Bergerac, "It is time."

De Bergerac stilled, then made one defiant slashing motion with his sword before striding out of the room. Marjorie hurried along in his wake, as if she could prevent what was about to happen. Roarke reflected that somewhere down the line, she must have fallen for the man, however fictional he might be. Leslie's observation in regard to the juxtaposition of reality and fiction rang through his mind again, and he watched the Marquis de Sade's two lackeys depart after Marjorie and de Bergerac, reflecting that one day he would let her in on this secret as well…presuming de Bergerac survived.

He made his way along the elegant corridor to a dining room where for some reason, the duel was to take place. And there he stood for a long five minutes or more, perhaps, listening to the rapid clash of blades, peering in once long enough to see Marjorie sitting at the table watching in alarm while the two men thrust and parried at each other, circling the table enough to make a person seasick. During every pause, de Sade taunted de Bergerac, till Roarke heard a few thumps and a very long pause. He glanced in again, just long enough to see de Bergerac flat on the floor, enduring a juvenile jibe about the size of his nose, his face frozen and his eyes wide. Then he seemed to rally and leaped to his feet, turning the tide of the battle from that point on, declaiming the entire time without seeming to lose his breath at all. And at last, Roarke quietly shed the friar's robe and set it aside, stepping into the doorway to see de Bergerac and Marjorie kissing each other.

"Ms. Denton?" he prompted, and when she turned to him, he advised, "You must come with me now. Your fantasy is over."

Alarmed protest rose in her face. "Oh no. No, please…let us spend just a little time together," she begged.

"I'm sorry," Roarke said. His tone wouldn't have revealed it, but he was sorry, in fact. It would have been good for Cyrano…however, there were things even he couldn't control.

Defeated, Marjorie came to him, eyes downcast, then paused to look back one last time at the statuesque tableau of de Bergerac holding a sword to de Sade's throat, as motionless as if Roarke had stopped time—which in fact he had. She sighed and slipped out the doorway past him, murmuring dazedly, "One kiss, and I'm in love, with a charming, brave and wonderful ghost."

Roarke let this pass without comment, but he smiled briefly to himself before leading her through the door and back to the present day. When he brought Marjorie into the study, Julie and Leslie both looked up; in Julie's case, she sat up straight, eager to hear what had happened, while Leslie noticed the look on Marjorie's face and smiled a little in sympathy. "How'd it go?" Julie asked.

Marjorie, still dressed in her fussy green formal gown, looked at her in silence for so long that Julie cleared her throat and broke eye contact. Then the woman smiled just a little and said, "I got my fantasy." With that, she left the house.

"Both fantasies ended?" Julie asked, shocked. "You mean all this happened in just one day? But uncle…I mean, Mr. Roarke…how can that be?"

"Sometimes Mr. Roarke's really efficient," Leslie wisecracked.

Roarke chuckled. "Occasionally things do indeed work out that way," he said. "Consider it a chance to catch up on your own housework tomorrow, and Leslie will have the opportunity to visit with her friends if she wishes. I would say that, all around, it's been a most satisfying weekend, don't you think?"

"It was too darn short, that's what I think," Julie grumbled, getting to her feet. "Well, see you two tomorrow." She left by the French shutters.

Leslie grinned at her guardian. "I think she's afraid she won't get paid for the full weekend, if you ask me."

That got her a laugh from him as he approached the desk and took the chair Julie had just vacated. "What do you think, young lady? Have you any comments?"

She sobered a bit and shrugged. "Well, I guess Mr. Potter got everything he ever really wanted, but I'm not so sure about Ms. Denton. What did happen?"

Roarke related what he had seen of the ending of Marjorie Denton's fantasy while she listened curiously; when he finished, Leslie made a sympathetic face in the direction of the door Marjorie had exited through. "Oh, I see. You know, I don't really think that was fair, making her fall in love with a fictional character."

"You don't?" Roarke inquired, studying her. "Not even so that the lady might learn something new about a concept she apparently has held so dear to her heart that she was blinded to its drawbacks? Surely you don't begrudge me that."

She considered it for a moment, absently drumming her fingers atop a half-opened envelope on the desk. Then she began to smirk, and met his gaze with a gleam in her eyes. "Well, I guess not. Especially since the odds are pretty good that somebody was playing the role of Cyrano de Bergerac and living out a fantasy of his own, and he's going home with Ms. Denton on Monday morning."

He rocked back in his chair with hearty laughter. "I daresay you already know me far too well, Leslie Susan," he admitted cheerfully. "But never become too complacent—I can still be full of surprises, you know."

"I know," she agreed, grinning at him. "That's one reason this business is so much fun." He laughed again and patted her shoulder, then sent her up to bed for the night, reaching for the abandoned envelopes and gathering them into a neat stack for her.

§ § § - October 26, 1981

The first rover drew up before Roarke, Julie and Leslie, and Timothy Potter stepped out, turning to hand out Suba, who inexplicably was still dressed in her "me Tarzan, you Jane" outfit. Leslie reflected to herself that she hoped Potter would buy the poor girl some new clothes before they left on their connecting flight to the US mainland from Hawaii, before Potter addressed her guardian with, "Mr. Roarke…I know I don't have any right to ask you this, but please—don't separate us again."

He was so earnest, so serious, that Leslie stared at Roarke, who pointed out, "But the young lady was only part of your fantasy, Mr. Potter—which is now over." She waited for him to say something else, but Suba merely hung her head, and Potter looked bereft. Roarke turned to his goddaughter. "Julie?"

Julie looked sorrowful as well. "Sorry, Mr. Potter," she said, her voice dripping regret as she opened the magic book she held in one arm, "but rules are rules." As Leslie watched, completely clueless, Julie handed the book to Potter so that he could see the page she had opened it to.

"You must now make her disappear once more, for the last time," Roarke said.

Suba seemed resigned. "I understand what must be done," she said and stretched onto her tiptoes to press a kiss onto Potter's lips. "Goodbye, Tim."

"Read it, Mr. Potter," Roarke prompted. "Read it."

Giving up, Potter slowly read aloud. _"Strua-wok, strimble-brack, fly…fly."_

_That's it?_ Leslie wondered, then found herself waving away the thick smoky fog that billowed in out of nowhere. When it cleared away, Potter was alone.

"Well," the would-be magician mumbled, "she's gone."

Roarke raised a finger. "Ah…but the difference is, she has gone…" He paused for effect, then smiled. "…to Cleveland, Mr. Potter."

"To Cleveland!" he blurted, eyes widening.

Leslie shook her head in amazement as Roarke and Julie grinned at him. "That's right," Julie said through a giggle, "she'll be waiting for you when you get home."

Potter began laughing too. "Mr. Roarke…what can I say?"

"No more spells, Mr. Potter," Roarke said, taking back the book and handing it to a passing native girl who would return it to the main house. "From now on, stick to conjuring —thank you—and card tricks, huh?" Potter promised agreement through a laugh, and he shook hands with all three of them before turning and heading jauntily up to the dock.

"That's not fair that you didn't let me in on that, Mr. Roarke," Leslie complained when Potter was out of earshot.

"It's perfectly fair," Roarke replied serenely. "After all, my dear Leslie, you had the opportunity to sit in with me throughout the bulk of Mr. Potter's fantasy. I felt that therefore, Julie should be the one to be in on the final secret. Besides," he added with a wink, "that will allow her to earn that paycheck you mentioned Saturday evening." She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled as the second rover drew up with Marjorie Denton.

She got out and faced them with a deep sigh, and Roarke peered closely at her. "You don't seem happy, Ms. Denton. Didn't you enjoy your fantasy?"

"It was what I asked," Marjorie said wistfully, "but oh…I would have loved to know Cyrano better. He was everything in the world I wanted in a man."

"I see. Unfortunately, your request didn't specify a lasting relationship."

Marjorie nodded once and conceded, "Well, at least I got to know him. It's something I'll treasure for the rest of my life. Thank you, Mr. Roarke."

"Ah, but before you go…" Roarke caught her and stopped her, fielding her quizzical look. "May I introduce M'sieur Bertrand Sabbatier, a college professor who loves Cyrano's work as much as you, and wanted to relive his last days." On Marjorie's expression of delighted shock as she faced the smiling, balding man who stood before her, Roarke looked at Leslie over Julie's head and winked, making her grin widely back at him.

"You're—" Marjorie began, even as Sabbatier nodded once with a smile.

"Appearances are sometimes deceptive, Ms. Denton. But trust your heart," Roarke advised smilingly.

Sabbatier's smile became a grin. "The nose went with the role," he explained. "Do you mind?" They could see by the brilliance in Marjorie's eyes that she didn't mind at all.

"It wouldn't have made any difference," she assured him, touching his cheek with her open palm. Leslie felt as though she were intruding on a private moment, yet she couldn't take her eyes away from the scene.

" 'And thus, my angel, plead I this,' " Sabbatier quoted, taking Marjorie's hands, " 'enchant thy servant with a kiss?' " Without a word, Marjorie leaned in toward him and gladly complied with his request.

Roarke smiled, glanced at the girls, then looked again. Leslie caught his movement and guiltily yanked her gaze away from the couple, but Julie was staring dreamily at them, her expressive face a sea of enchanted longing. They waved the couple off to the plane dock, and Julie released a dazzled "oh…" that made Roarke look oddly at her again. But Leslie had to hide her giggles behind her hand when he straightened up, crossed his arms over his chest and let out a satisfied "ah" of his own. Julie peered at his mock dreamy look, then let her gaze return to their retreating guests, smiling serenely. Roarke slanted a look at her and let his smile have its way, then treated Leslie to another wink that came all too close to making her burst out laughing.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"I can understand why you were so caught up in that poetry, Julie," Miranda said with a soft smile, her eyes misty. "The Cyrano de Bergerac story is lovely, isn't it?"

"That was one of my favorite fantasies," Julie agreed, just as misty as her sister-in-law. "Every time I remember the romantic way that professor said those words to Ms. Denton…"

"Acch, lassie," groaned Rogan, while Josh half-smirked and Christian eyed Leslie with some wariness. "Don't tell me, now ye want me to act like that!"

"And what of you, my Rose?" Christian put in, sounding as if he felt he might have been better off not asking.

Leslie and Julie exchanged merry glances; then Julie remarked, "You know, buster, I think sometimes you could do with a little extra romance." Rogan moaned as if someone had broken his kneecaps, making the others grin.

Except, that is, for Christian, who was still peering sidelong at his wife. "Well?"

She regarded him speculatively. "Hmm, well, since the triplets became mobile, I've noticed that a lot of the romance has disappeared out of our marriage," she commented.

Christian's face became outraged. "Oh, now, come on!" he protested, half on his feet from the force of his emotion. "You don't really mean that! Didn't I spend nearly five years courting you before we could be married? And didn't I spend enough time and effort talking you into accepting my marriage proposal? What of our honeymoon, and of all the surprises I went to such effort to arrange on our first wedding anniversary? And—"

"I know, I know, my love," Leslie said, laughing and raising both hands in an attempt to calm him down. "Gosh, don't get so upset. I know we can't help losing some of the romance with three active preschoolers taking up so much of our time." Slowly he sat back down while she continued: "I know you went to a lot of trouble, my love. I'm really not faulting you for anything. But you do have to admit that the last two or three anniversaries saw you off someplace else, setting up branches of the computer business."

Christian sighed. "I'll concede to that," he said. "Not that it was quite my choice—and before you remind everyone else in here, I may as well confess to the cardinal sin of having actually forgotten our fourth wedding anniversary. Leslie let me off far more lightly than she probably should have for that. Still, I've tried to make up for it since then, and of course we have to remember that there are small children in the house now, which vacuums a lot of the romance out of a marriage. Even ours."

"Oh, but there are plenty of ways to keep the romance in a marriage, even when you feel you're being hampered by small children," Roarke assured him, very amused. "I'm sure you're aware of that, Christian. And perhaps hearing about this particular fantasy has given both you and Rogan a few ideas that you could incorporate into your marriages—and you too, Josh, let's not forget."

Josh blinked. "You'd expect me to quote flowery poetry?" he asked Miranda in a very worried voice. "Can you imagine how much like a really bad bodice-ripper that sounds like?"

"Sometimes a woman _needs_ a bodice-ripper or two in her life," Julie informed him. "So I think you better keep that in mind. And you too, you big, tough, macho oaf." She awarded Rogan a light thwack in the upper arm with the back of her hand, then grinned at Roarke. "Okay, what's the next one? I survived this one pretty well."

Roarke chuckled. "If we are taking these fantasies in the order we granted them…"

"I know what came next," Leslie said with an anticipatory grin. "I'll never forget that strength potion you had Father make up, only to find it was a mistake."

Julie stilled, closed her eyes and groaned loudly. "Oh no. You _would_ remember that."

"I sure would," Leslie said wickedly and tossed a huge grin at Christian, who let out a laugh at her unadulterated glee. "See, it went like this…"


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - November 2, 1981

"Well, this is highly unusual," Roarke said, frowning at his date book. "Leslie, are you responsible for this?"

"For what, Mr. Roarke?" asked Leslie blankly, looking up from her homework.

"Mrs. Cora Parnell is to arrive here on the island on Friday," Roarke said with an ominous tone in his voice. "Friday, Leslie! Pray tell, exactly why is that?"

"Oh," Leslie blurted. "Mr. Roarke, before you get all upset with me, I ought to tell you that you okayed it. Mrs. Parnell's grandchildren wanted her to have her favorite fantasy granted specifically on her birthday. They said she had to have it this year because she wasn't expected to see her next birthday. It just so happens that her birthday fell on a Friday this year, and when I read you the letter, you told me to go ahead and schedule it."

Roarke thought back and then remembered a little belatedly. "Ah yes, you're right, Leslie. My apologies. Unfortunately, we have a time-travel fantasy for next weekend, and we are going to have a great many preparations for it this week. Tattoo, my friend, perhaps you would take care of the Parnell fantasy." 

Tattoo looked slightly dubious. "Not that I mind, boss, but…what kind of fantasy did Mrs. Parnell's grandchildren want us to grant for her?"

"She wants to be Cinderella," Roarke said.

"Cinderella?" Tattoo echoed. "If she has grandkids, then she must be an old lady. And the last time I heard that fairy tale, Cinderella was pretty young."

"So what do you see as the obstacle?" Roarke asked, genuinely perplexed.

Tattoo stared at him, and Leslie started to laugh. "Oh, come on, Tattoo," she said, "there's no trick to making old ladies young for a while. Mr. Roarke's done it so many times, it's old hat to him. The thing I really want to see is mice turning into coachmen and all that stuff. Not to mention the ugly stepsisters."

"You're very bad," Tattoo teased her, grinning. "Okay, boss, I guess it shouldn't be a problem. Just let me know what you need me to do."

"Thank you, my friend," Roarke said with a smile. "Since this fantasy will be entirely your responsibility, you may take the rest of the weekend off. Besides, Julie is to grant a fantasy of her own for the first time, and that will be hectic enough."

"In that case, I'll be more than happy to take care of Mrs. Parnell's fantasy," Tattoo said, rolling his eyes. "Julie's a nice kid, but…well, let's just say I'd rather be well out of the way when she gets her hands on whatever fantasy you're giving her."

Roarke gave him a disapproving look. "You might consider giving her the benefit of the doubt," he said.

Tattoo looked honestly puzzled. "How come, boss?"

Leslie eyed him. "What if it were me?" she asked.

"_Sacre bleu,_ don't even mention it," Tattoo said and actually shuddered. Leslie sighed and looked at Roarke, who shrugged and smiled a little.

§ § § - November 7, 1981

Bright and early Saturday morning, Leslie and Roarke paused at the top of the steps off the porch, while Roarke checked his pocket watch. Julie appeared a moment later from a path that led indirectly toward the MacNabb house and greeted them cheerfully.

"Good morning, Julie!" Roarke replied, and Leslie added a quick hello of her own.

"Where's Tattoo?" Julie inquired curiously.

"He's sleeping in this morning," Leslie explained with a grin.

"Yes…Mrs. Parnell's fantasy ran much later than expected last night," Roarke added.

Julie scoured her memory. "Mrs. Parnell…she's the elderly lady who had the fantasy to be Cinderella, isn't she?"

Roarke nodded, and Leslie grinned wryly. "See, Prince Charming destroyed the pumpkin coach," she informed Julie.

"I'm sorry! How'd he manage to do that?" Julie exclaimed.

"It appears that Prince Charming smashed Cinderella's pumpkin coach because he, Prince Charming, was also smashed," said Roarke, and walked toward the approaching car with a certain air of disapproval about him. Julie and Leslie looked at each other and both giggled behind their hands, almost in a conspiratorial, _don't tell Mr. Roarke!_ sort of way. Roarke glanced back at them once and they instantly composed themselves, but in the car, grinned helplessly at each other.

Their inordinate amusement had worn itself out by the time they reached the plane dock, so that the two girls were able to take their places one on either side of Roarke with some composure. It was unusual for Tattoo not to be there; apparently the Parnell fantasy had been a complete inconvenience all the way around. _Hope the money was worth it,_ Leslie thought just as the first guest stepped off the plane. She and Julie both recognized the flamboyantly dressed woman at the same moment. "That's Dolores de Murcia, the famous guitarist!" said Julie.

"That's right! I thought she was on tour or something," Leslie exclaimed.

"You have a good eye, Julie," Roarke complimented, "and you as well, Leslie, as I would have thought you'd pay more attention to current musicians." Leslie shrugged.

"Guess I'm full of surprises," she said lightly, and Roarke chuckled.

"Apparently. Well," he said, turning their attention back to their guest, "Ms. de Murcia's fantasy is to meet El Lobo Rojo."

"The Red Wolf?" Leslie translated in amazement, having learned more than just bits of the language in her Spanish class. "The Robin Hood of old California?"

"Right. Therefore, she is determined to go back to those swashbuckling days and assist in the fight against cruelty and oppression," replied Roarke.

"Good for her," Julie said approvingly.

Roarke agreed, "Admirable, yes. Unhappily, Ms. de Murcia will be placing her life in great jeopardy." The guitarist, watching the Hawaiian band with its accompanying hula dancers, stepped onto solid ground with her drink and paused beside a parrot perch, bouncing excitedly along with the dancers for a few beats.

Suddenly Julie blurted breathlessly, "There he is—Charlie Atkins!" Leslie wrenched her attention aside to see a balding, mustachioed African-American man exit the plane and stride down the ramp, without stopping to accept either leis or a drink. There was a determined expression on his face.

"Yes, Julie, your very own fantasy to fulfill!" Roarke said smilingly. "And all the way from Sioux City, Iowa."

Julie looked at her godfather with profound gratitude. "Oh, thank you for giving me the chance, Mr. Roarke." She had finally grown adept at refraining from using the more familiar term "uncle" to address him around the guests, and it was almost second nature to her now.

"Oh, nonsense!" said Roarke. "You've worked very hard, and therefore deserve to handle a fantasy." Julie beamed at him, and Leslie smiled wryly. Tattoo had been here far longer than Julie and didn't always manage to pull off the fantasies he had granted, she reflected. She wondered how things were going to work out.

"So just what is Mr. Atkins' fantasy, Julie?" she wanted to know.

Julie willingly commenced with a breathless narrative. "Like many small men who've been bullied, his fantasy is to be the strongest man in the world."

"Oh, excellent!" Roarke said. "There are millions of males the world over who have nurtured the same dream." He eyed his goddaughter a little worriedly. "Julie, you are totally confident that you can execute this fantasy, aren't you?" Julie rolled her eyes, and Roarke clarified: "No, no, no. What I mean is, when a man such as Mr. Atkins tries to be something he's not, the results can often be quite…uh, devastating."

"I'm well aware of the pitfalls, Mr. Roarke, and I'll be very careful," Julie insisted.

"Famous last words," Leslie murmured knowingly. There was a pun trying to form in her brain about the "execution" of Charlie Atkins' fantasy, but when she noticed Julie's hurt look, she kept it to herself. Roarke, on the other hand, said nothing, didn't even try to convey disapproval or anything else. Maybe he, too, had in mind Tattoo's occasional escapades.

Instead, he said only, "Well, then…so be it." His drink arrived and he greeted their guests as always, with one quick, wary glance at Julie.

‡ ‡ ‡

Dolores de Murcia, as had a number of famous guests before her, willingly signed the autograph book Leslie had received as a fourteenth-birthday present. "Half full already," Leslie said happily. _"Gracias, señorita de Murcia."_

"_De nada,"_ replied Ms. de Murcia. "You must call me Dolores, yes?"

"Okay, thanks!" Leslie agreed.

"Very good, Leslie, perhaps your Spanish class is having a positive effect after all," said Roarke teasingly, leading Leslie, Julie and their guest out of the house. "So then perhaps, _señorita,_ you might explain how you became so interested in this particular period of the history of California."

Crossing the porch, Dolores related in a Spanish accent even thicker than Tattoo's French one, "Although I was born in Spain, I have traced my family tree back to my great-great-great-grandmamma, Conchita Dolores Arjuello Ortega Perra de Sanchez. She was the niece of the governor of California when California was still a Spanish possession." Dolores paused on the walk in front of the house and faced Roarke, Julie and Leslie. "He was a very greedy and cruel man. And she married a _caballero_ called Don Rafael. But I suspect he may have been El Lobo, because all my life I have _hormigas dentro de los pantalones."_ She grinned and all but tap-danced in place.

Julie gave Roarke a blank look and Leslie squinted, able to decipher only the first word before Roarke translated, "Ants in her pants." Julie's face cleared with understanding, and Leslie suddenly wished she were more adept in the language.

"Yes," Dolores confirmed excitedly. "All my life, I have felt this need, this…passion—yes, _passion_ is the word!—to help the dog that is under."

Julie scowled in sheer confusion; Leslie blinked. "The underdog," Roarke corrected gently.

"Right, right," Dolores bubbled. "But only nowadays, you know—"

Roarke held up a hand, smiling. "Please, please, Ms. de Murcia, you have convinced me that you are convinced that the blood of El Lobo Rojo flows in your veins."

"Oh yes! Ever since I was a little girl, he has been my hero, my hero. What a man. _WOW!_ What a man!" Roarke flinched, startled, and Leslie and Julie both stood choking back giggles. "I have his costume; I even learn how to ride…" The guitarist made motions as of holding the reins of a horse and swaying in the saddle. "…and fence like him!" As she said the word _fence_, she shot out a fist in imitation of a thrust and caught Roarke right in the stomach, making him gasp loudly and sharply. Leslie gasped too; Julie blinked in startled amazement.

Caught up in her hyperactive enthusiasm in spite of himself and her unexpected punch to the gut, Roarke laughed delightedly. "That's wonderful!" With one hand over the spot Dolores had unintentionally slugged, he glanced at Leslie, whose eyes had gone large with laughing disbelief, and winked at her before guiding Dolores down the walk and indicating a rickety, almost decrepit wooden cart that sat in the lane, hitched to two mules. A patient driver clad in nineteenth-century Spanish peasant garb sat loosely holding the reins, half dozing in the tropical sun. "My dear _señorita,"_ Roarke said, indicating the cart while Julie and Leslie inspected it from behind him, "your carriage awaits."

Dolores peered at it and remarked dubiously, "It has awaited me a very, very long time." Julie and Leslie both tipped forward, barely able to restrain their mirth.

Roarke, almost as amused as they, boosted Dolores into the back of the cart. She turned to face them, took a sniff from the big red hibiscus someone had handed her at the plane dock, and then whimsically tossed it at Roarke, who deftly caught it. _"Adios!"_ Dolores called cheerfully, half turned and poked the dozing driver in the back, and gave him a quick order in Spanish. The cart jerked into motion towards a gently rolling fog in the lane, and the last they heard of the excited woman was an exuberant _"YAHOO!"_ before the cart vanished in the mist.

It was sheer relief for both Julie and Leslie to finally release their dammed-up laughter; they had only to look at each other before they both exploded. Roarke found himself joining in, despite the sore area in his abdomen. He'd have to do something about that, he reflected, letting the girls blow off the steam of their mirth. "She's hilarious," Julie gasped, convulsed.

"And so hyper!" added Leslie, causing both of them to break down all over again. Roarke shook his head, chuckling heartily; when Leslie straightened up and happened to catch his eye, she abruptly sobered, remembering Dolores' sucker punch earlier. "Did she hit you really hard, Mr. Roarke? It sure looked like it!" Julie, too, peered at him in concern, still grinning.

"Perhaps not quite as hard as she could have done," Roarke observed, then frowned a little when the area in question twitched, as if in protest. "Although perhaps I'll skip lunch today."

"Wait till Tattoo hears what happened," Leslie remarked. "He's going to hover over you like he was your mother or something. You know how loyal he is."

Roarke grinned. "Fiercely so," he agreed fondly. "I don't begrudge him that; he is one of the very dearest friends I have ever had. Well, let's go inside and await our other…excuse me, Julie's guest."

"I can't wait," Julie bubbled as they trooped inside and Roarke gathered together a silver decanter and matching cup that he had prepared the previous day. "I'm so excited…this is going to be a terrific fantasy, I just know it. It's such a—" The door opened at that point, admitting Charlie Atkins, and she immediately leaped into hostess mode, welcoming him inside and urging him to sit down. Atkins refused, looking a little nervous and a lot hopeful. His gaze was on Roarke, which Leslie noticed seemed to disconcert Julie quite a bit.

"Perhaps you should tell us about your fantasy and why you wish us to grant it," Roarke suggested.

Atkins seemed to droop. "I'm a pushover," he said. "I've got no guts. If only I could be…stronger."

Roarke smiled with understanding. "We will do our best, Mr. Atkins. Oh…excuse me, _Julie_ will do her best. You see, she's in charge of your fantasy…more or less." Julie beamed at their guest, who studied her curiously. She gestured at the desk, and Roarke nodded. "Oh, yes." Lifting the ornate decanter, he used his ring finger and pinky to extract the stopper from it in an elegant motion that instantly made Leslie envious, and faced Atkins with a grave expression. "This particular potion," he began slowly, pouring some into the cup, "has never failed to provide the user with the strength you so desperately long for, Mr. Atkins."

Julie, looking disgruntled, sidled over to Roarke and tapped him on the shoulder. "Mr. Roarke," she reminded him quietly, "that was supposed to be my line."

Leslie snickered silently to herself behind the desk, very careful not to let Julie notice. Roarke turned to her apologetically. "Oh, so it was. Forgive me, Julie, I'm so accustomed to…you understand." He handed her the cup and moved a few steps back.

Julie smiled bright acceptance of his apology and turned to Atkins. She started to hand him the cup, hesitated, then advised earnestly, "You better sit down."

This time Atkins did so, though first he glanced at Roarke, who nodded once. Julie gave him the cup and said, "Bottoms up, Mr. Atkins. You are about to become the world's strongest man."

Atkins heaved a fortifying sigh and hoisted the cup. "Here goes something," he said hopefully and began to drain the contents. Julie leaned forward, watching him with wide, expectant eyes; Roarke stepped unobtrusively back and concentrated on him over her shoulder, his eyes narrowing slightly with purpose. For a strange, alien moment time seemed to freeze, and the light fluctuated so that for about half a second, everything appeared as if on a photographic negative before returning to normal. Leslie gave her head one hard shake, as if dispelling a shudder; she had never seen that effect before, and it made her faintly queasy. One thing was certain: life on Fantasy Island could never be called dull. She grinned at the thought.

Their guest lowered the cup, a somewhat startled look on his face, and swallowed the last gulp. Julie seemed to sense something and shot a suspicious look over her shoulder at Roarke, who straightened up immediately and smiled at her. Still waiting for the verdict, she turned back to Atkins and asked, "Quick, tell me—how do you feel?"

"The same," said Atkins.

"I suggest that you go back to your bungalow, lie down, then when you wake up, enjoy the new you," Julie offered rather expansively. Roarke glanced oddly at her.

"Thank you, Julie, I'll do that," Atkins agreed and arose. Leslie came out from behind the desk and paused at Roarke's side, a question at the ready once their guest had departed. They all watched him step up into the foyer, grasp the doorknob and pull—only to yank the panel containing the knob and its plate completely off the door. Leslie utterly forgot the question she'd wanted to ask, and Roarke and Julie stared, the latter with alarm.

"I, uh…" Atkins lifted the chunk of wood helplessly, and Roarke, still carrying the decanter, approached the foyer steps with a smile.

"No harm done, Mr. Atkins," he assured the man. "No harm."

Atkins relinquished the doorknob to Roarke and slowly left, experimentally fingering his right bicep on the way out. Roarke studied the wood and the knob, and when he turned to face Julie, he wore a distinctly wry look. Julie tried to put a good face on it. "Well, Mr. Roarke, I really pulled it off."

Roarke displayed the hunk of door at her. "And Mr. Atkins also pulled it off," he punned, deadpan.

Julie and Leslie both came over to stare at the knob. "How did he do that?" Julie asked, honestly perplexed.

"Very simply," Roarke told her. "You made him the strongest man in the world."

Julie looked panicky. "But I didn't mean to make him _strong_ strong, like in muscles…I meant _inner_ strength!"

"My dear young lady," Roarke scolded in annoyance, "if you meant inner strength, why didn't you _specify_ inner strength? There is a great deal of difference between inner strength and outer strength!"

Julie groaned. "I really goofed, didn't I?"

"Well, let's put it this way: you have just unleashed a walking time bomb on Fantasy Island. Therefore, I suggest that you get busy and do everything possible to defuse it." Julie immediately scuttled out, and Roarke stared for a moment at the doorknob.

"Whew," Leslie said, running a finger along the jagged edge of the broken wood.

"Be careful of splinters," Roarke cautioned her. "Well, this should be one of those 'interesting' weekends to which you so often like to make reference." She snickered loudly.

‡ ‡ ‡

Julie, abashed but bound to carry out Roarke's order, eventually managed to corner Atkins at the swimming pool and sheepishly explained her mistake. "So on Monday, go home, and when you get some free time, come back and we'll do it right."

Before Atkins could comment, a new voice called out, "Hey, Julie…" She glanced over to see an older fellow with a white beard, signaling urgently at her to come over to him. With a soft sigh, she quickly excused herself to Atkins and hurried over to him. Willie was a friend of her father, with whom he'd been in partnership when she was a small child; they used to bring sports events to Fantasy Island's guests on regular occasions. Since Julie's parents had died, he had gone out on his own and been surprisingly successful in the US, though with only one attraction—a monstrous wrestler by the name of Sampson Smith, who had gone years without being defeated. The man in question sat on a barbell bench not too far away, surrounded by empty-headed young women fawning all over him. Sampson had bested so many wrestlers by now, Julie recalled being told, that it was getting harder and harder for Willie to dredge up opponents for him.

"Hi, honey," Willie said with an avuncular smile that promptly collapsed. "Boy, am I desperate." At her questioning look, he said, "You know who I borrowed the money from to promote this wrestling match, don'tcha?" She shook her head warily, and Willie fisted his right hand, sticking one knuckle between his teeth and his index finger on his nose, which he squashed to one side, while putting his other hand over the corresponding ear. Anyone else would have been thoroughly puzzled, but Julie recognized him instantly as a loan shark whom her father had occasionally complained about, many years ago.

"Willie, I told you not to go to him!" she wailed in despair.

"What'd I do wrong?" Willie protested. "It's a great idea—a wrestling card for Fantasy Island." Julie only sighed, no longer certain it was such a good idea after all.

The massive bald wrestler yelled derisively just then, "Who're you gonna get for me to wrestle? King Kong, or Godzilla?" His women all laughed on cue.

Clearly rattled, Willie turned to Julie and said intensely, "If I don't find someone for Sampson to wrestle, he's gonna kill me." He stared meaningfully at her; but before she could formulate any sort of reply, there was a loud crash behind them. Willie peered around Julie and she pivoted on one foot to see Charlie Atkins, just finishing a stretch, staring at a huge hole in the cement-block wall that surrounded the pool. He slowly withdrew his fist from the hole and rubbed it absently, looking disconcerted.

"Whoa," breathed Willie, and Julie stumbled back around to see the pure light of discovery (_and maybe salvation, too,_ she thought) suffusing his face. "If that guy can wrestle, I'm off the hook!"

Julie sighed loudly this time and slapped her own cheek, completely disillusioned. Roarke would certainly hear about this in due time, and there was no way he'd ever trust her again with a fantasy of her own. _I'm really digging myself a hole,_ she thought dismally.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - November 7, 1981

Roarke still didn't have much appetite, between Dolores de Murcia's tender ministrations and the fact that this was the two-year anniversary of the death of his beloved wife, Helena. He and a solemn Leslie paid a visit to her grave, watering the flowers planted there—wild orchids and a rosebush—before returning to the main house to get their minds back on current matters. In the next several weeks they would probably have a Christmas card from Jamie, who had sent the first card shortly after arriving in India following his mother's death and promised that, no matter how busy he was, he would always at least send them a greeting at Christmastime. Leslie wondered idly what Jamie was doing now as she strolled alongside Roarke in the direction of home.

Then her stomach rumbled and she realized aloud, "I'm hungry." She peered at her guardian. "What about you, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke aimed a wry sidewide look in her direction and said, "I? Not so much, I'm afraid." She grinned at that, and he smiled ruefully back before teasing her, "Perhaps Mana'olana will fuss over me for once, and take some of the pressure off you."

That made her laugh. "That'd be nice for a change," she commented, and after that their walk back was more animated. Tattoo and Julie were waiting for them at the table on the veranda; Tattoo looked fully rested, while Julie seemed worried. "Is everything all right, Julie?" Roarke inquired while he and Leslie took their chairs.

Julie looked up as if startled. "Yeah, sure, everything's fine…" Her voice trailed off, and she took in Tattoo's suspicious expression before breaking down and confessing, "No, it's not. I think we've got a problem. You remember I told you Wednesday that Willie was coming back this weekend to see if he could set up a wrestling match for the guests to watch?"

"Yes," said Roarke questioningly.

"Well…he finally found somebody for that overgrown knothead Sampson Smith to wrestle," Julie said.

"What's wrong with that?" Leslie wanted to know.

The older girl made a face. "It's gonna be Mr. Atkins."

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie exchanged glances. "Charlie Atkins? Your fantasy?" Leslie asked.

"Yup." Julie plopped her chin into her hand. "It's just getting worse and worse."

Roarke sighed deeply. "Sampson Smith is notorious for gravely injuring his opponents," he said sternly, at which Julie regarded him with a gloomy stare. "Strength potion or no, Mr. Atkins may be in very grave danger. What possessed you to allow Willie to go ahead with his plans?"

"You said it was okay," Julie pointed out, a little sulkily.

"That," retorted Roarke, "was before Willie had such a difficult time finding a new opponent for Sampson. I've done many things I have reason to regret, but perhaps this will turn out to be one of the more unfortunate ones. Julie, after lunch, I want you to find Willie and tell him the whole match is off. There will be no wrestling match on this island."

Looking dubious, Julie agreed nevertheless, and picked at her food almost as much as Roarke did, even though he had only a bowl of gazpacho. Leslie was relieved when Mana'olana picked on both Roarke and Julie and seemed to forget about her altogether; she got through her meal without one badgering word from the grandmotherly cook, and was in high spirits when Roarke decided it might not be a bad idea for him and Leslie to accompany Julie in her search for Willie. Roarke wanted to talk to Charlie Atkins as well. Tattoo, who as much as said he was just as glad not to be involved in this fantasy, retreated to his cottage after the meal to work on some paintings, and Roarke led Julie and Leslie along to the clearing where the wrestling match was eventually supposed to take place.

Here, the ring had already been set up; there were small tents for the wrestlers as well, and barbell benches scattered around the green, some occupied. One such occupant was Charlie Atkins, whose skinny arms were effortlessly hoisting a highly loaded barbell into the air. As they approached, he lifted it with only one arm, switched to the other arm, then snorted an audible laugh to himself and resumed using both arms. Roarke shook his head and stepped up his pace, forcing the girls to nearly run to keep up till they had reached the bench. "Uh, Mr. Atkins?" he began.

Atkins paused long enough to see who was there, then resumed lifting weights. "Hi," he said jovially. "You three coming to my wrestling match?"

"Well…that is not what Julie had in mind for your fantasy," Roarke began.

Atkins chuckled. "Oh, please don't worry, Mr. Roarke. I'm gonna put down that Sampson in nothin' flat!"

Roarke frowned and entreated, "Will you please put that barbell down? You could injure yourself!"

Atkins did so with a trace of reluctance, then sighed in satisfaction and sat up. "I could never lift weights," he observed, eyeing the barbell with pride shining from his eyes. "That potion of yours must have a lot of side benefits!"

"They may not be benefits at all," Roarke protested.

Atkins got up and faced them. "Mr. Roarke, I'm okay, really."

By now Julie looked pained; Roarke persisted, "But Mr. Atkins, you have consented to step into a wrestling match with Sampson Smith! Why, he could easily maim you!"

"How?" demanded Atkins. "Julie says I'm the world's strongest man. Watch!" Before either Julie or Roarke could do more than open their mouths to protest, he strode to a nearby punching bag, braced himself, drew back one fist and then gave it a hefty sock. There was so much force behind the punch that he blew a hole out the other side, leaving some of the interior stuffing hanging out. Julie's mouth dropped open far enough to drive a truck into; Roarke and Leslie stared, stunned.

From somewhere nearby Leslie thought she heard a vaguely urgent voice and half tuned in, catching only some of the words on the breeze: "…If you lose to this nobody, your career is over. You won't be able to draw an audience with a pencil!" This was followed by a skeptical _"Braaahh!"_ that made her look around long enough to see Sampson Smith one-handedly hoisting barbells some little distance away. Another man, who she supposed was either his trainer or his manager, was speaking earnestly to him, but she could no longer hear what he was saying.

Roarke's voice brought back her attention as he entreated with Atkins once more. "I don't—_we_ don't even know how long this potion's effects will last. You could lose your strength at any given moment," he said, snapping his fingers for emphasis.

Atkins simply refused to be swayed. "Don't worry about me, Mr. Roarke. From now on, I'm not walking away from anything or anybody." So saying, he turned and left them standing there, on his way to put in some more training.

Roarke stared after him, nodded thoughtfully, and turned to Julie while Leslie looked on, still silent. "Well, what do you think of your client now?"

Julie had lost her pained look and seemed to have perked up. "Well," she mused, "you know, at first I was worried. But now…" She embraced the damaged punching bag. "I feel great!" She started to pound the bag with relish, her voice a sudden growl of pride and self-confidence. "When I handle a fantasy, I _handle_ a _fantasy!_ Things really happen!" Grinning fiercely, she whacked the bag a few more times for emphasis. Leslie started to laugh; Roarke glanced at her and then rolled his eyes, which made her double over. Julie seemed oblivious, eyeing the punching bag as though daring it to hit her back.

When Leslie had managed to regain some control over herself, Roarke winked at her, then turned a stern look on his goddaughter. "Well, Julie, are you quite finished gloating?"

Julie grinned, sheepish but unrepentant. "I guess so. Anything you want me to do now, unc…Mr. Roarke?"

"No, not at the moment. Why don't you and Leslie come with me and make a few rounds before I go to check on Ms. de Murcia."

Julie and Leslie looked at each other and both giggled at the exact same moment. "I hope she isn't practicing her boxing when you get there," Julie said in a _wink, wink, nudge, nudge_ tone.

Roarke peered sidelong at her and said only, "Indeed." He smiled faintly when his goddaughter and his ward began to laugh again, and led the way back down the path they had come, intending to stop by the pond restaurant, the hotel and the pool before returning home.

By the time he did go back to check on Dolores de Murcia, it was approaching suppertime and he had sent Julie on home for the evening, after she had made noises about not wanting to leave Frida alone overnight. Tattoo had dropped by to show them his latest painting, a beautiful watercolor sketch of some little native girls tending some of the island's exotic flora. Leslie had said it would look perfect in one of the bungalows, and Tattoo had agreed, smiling broadly at her praise. Roarke saw to this before he checked on the meal with Mana'olana and then made the trip back in time.

Dolores de Murcia, clad in an elegant, bright-blue silk dress with matching mantilla, sat on the bed of an equally elegant room, appointed in tasteful and muted colors, spacious and open and luxurious. She was, after all, a guest of the governor of Spanish California, and was housed in what was probably the only truly comfortable building in all of the fledgling village of El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles. He smiled as he watched her slowly strumming some gloomy Spanish melody on her guitar; then he inquired, "How goes your fantasy, _señorita_ de Murcia?"

Dolores gave a great start and nearly dislodged the guitar from her lap. "Oh, _señor_ R-rrroarke, you gave me such a fright," she gasped, fluttering her hand rapidly before her face as if holding a fan.

"I apologize, _señorita,"_ Roarke said, smiling gently. "May I ask what's wrong? You seem unhappy."

"Maybe not unhappy, as much as…angry," Dolores finally said, looking reluctantly at Roarke for long enough that he saw the carefully banked outrage in her eyes. "I have not yet seen El Lobo Rojo. I do not know where he is, and no one else knows either. They say…" She paused and eyed him from under a scowl. "They say he may not even be alive. That he took a sword in the right side and no one has seen him since." Her eyes narrowed into near slits. "An outrage, I tell you, an outrage!" She lapsed into a stream of Spanish, lambasting the governor and lamenting the sorry plight of his people, that made Roarke stifle a smile before he cleared his throat to stop her.

"Excuse me, _señorita_. I don't mean to interrupt you, but surely you must have heard or seen something that might give you more information as to El Lobo's whereabouts," he suggested.

"Nothing!" Dolores said firmly. "The governor does not know…I hope he never finds out, that cruel and evil man…" She muttered in Spanish again, then seemed to remember herself and pulled her spine erect. "There is Juan Arjuello…I think he may be the man that my great-great-great grandmother married, or maybe—maybe—_el pariente."_

"A relation?" Roarke supplied, smiling slightly.

"_Si,_ that is the word. But I cannot tell." She slumped visibly and shook her head. "I don't know about this fantasy, Mr. Roarke. It's not what I thought it would be. No, I want to go back."

"But you haven't even given it a chance, _señorita,"_ Roarke pointed out. "You have tonight, and all of tomorrow."

"But that is the fantasy I paid for! To meet El Lobo Rojo! My man, my hero, the greatest of all time! You say you will give me my fantasy, but this is not my fantasy!" Dolores snapped. "I pay all this money for my fantasy, but it has not been worth the first _peseta!"_

Roarke gave her a long look, letting her cool down a little; then, when her breathing had slowed to some extent, he suggested, "Well, then, if El Lobo is truly incapacitated and has gone to ground, or perhaps even been done in, due to an injury…and if, as you say, you are outraged by what the governor is doing to the people of the village…then why not do something about it?"

"But I could not find El Lobo…no one knows where he is…" Her voice trailed off as she suddenly got the underlying meaning. "Oh no." Her eyes grew huge and her face radiated rejection. "No, no, no…not me."

"Why not you?" Roarke riposted. "To live in these times took great courage, you know. Even those who were suffering from hardships had to find the courage to face each and every day. And you know as well as I that corruption ran rampant in these times, in this place. It took a person of enormous courage to fight against it. What of you, _señorita_ de Murcia? Where is your courage? If you are so angry at the conditions the people here are forced to live in, and if El Lobo Rojo is unavailable…then it's up to you, is it not?"

Dolores looked slightly less skeptical as she listened to him. After a moment she murmured, "Well, when I first come here, I did see the corruption you talk about. And when I hear that El Lobo Rojo is gone, I tell myself I must…" Suddenly her expression cleared. "…help the people. Yes, yes, you are right!" Her face instantly lit up. "Now I see it all. _Oh, gracias, señor, muchas gracias!"_

Roarke grinned, then looked around simultaneously with her as a knock sounded on the door. He stepped back while she arose, calling, "Who is it?"

"It is Marisa, _señorita,"_ said a female voice. "The governor wishes your company at dinner."

"Oh, he does?" muttered Dolores, fussing with her mantilla while Roarke looked on with a broad smile. He turned silently and stepped back into the time corridor, still hearing her words. "I do not know if I wish to eat with him…he makes me so ill. Should I—Mr. Roarke? _Mr. R-rrrroarke!"_ Her voice came as through a wind tunnel, and he grinned again, knowing that from her point of view he was gone. He stepped out of the corridor shaking his head and laughing softly; that woman could roll an R till it was sick from dizziness.

§ § § - November 8, 1981

"I asked Frida if she wanted to come with me today and see the wrestling match," Julie admitted to Roarke and Leslie as they made their way toward the arena. "She made the ugliest face I've ever seen on anybody, and that takes a lot for a girl that pretty."

Leslie laughed. "I don't blame her. I think wrestling's just silly. But at least she gets the choice."

"You don't wish to watch the match?" Roarke inquired pointedly. "I can always send you back to Spanish California to assist _señorita_ de Murcia."

"No thanks," Leslie grumbled, rolling her eyes. "Sheesh. Well, I just hope it's over fast."

"It probably will be," Julie predicted gloomily. She started to say something else, then caught herself and squinted into the near distance. "Hey, isn't that Carrie over there?"

"Carrie who?" Leslie asked.

"Willie's press manager, Carrie Wilson. She's not looking very happy."

Roarke took in the slender African-American woman scowling at a poster that shouted, SAMPSON VS. HIS 200TH VICTIM, and nodded a couple of times. "Perhaps I'd better speak with her. Julie, go and find Mr. Atkins, and try to talk him out of participating in the match. Leslie, come with me."

She watched Julie strike off for the tents ringing the arena, then trailed Roarke over to Carrie Wilson, who spotted them coming and seemed to brighten marginally. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Roarke. Hi there, Leslie."

"Good morning, Ms. Wilson," Roarke replied.

"Hi, Ms. Wilson," Leslie said. "I hope your breakfast was okay."

Carrie blinked in surprise. "How come?"

"Well, you look less than thrilled about something," said Leslie with a diffident shrug.

"Oh." Carrie smiled at her. "Thanks for worrying about me, Leslie, but it's really all right. Actually…Mr. Roarke, I was thinking about my fantasy, but…I'm not even sure it matters, to tell you the truth. It's not nearly as important as the others you probably grant all the time around here."

Roarke smiled. "Well, you're right, your fantasy was not very special. But your openness, your honesty, was special indeed. That is why I am granting you the fantasy you are now experiencing."

"Experiencing?" blurted Carrie incredulously. Roarke nodded, and she said, "I asked to meet a plain, simple, decent guy, so I'd know what it's like—so that I'd have some frame of reference—so that when I go back home, maybe I'd meet someone. The only thing that's happened to me so far is…" She broke off when she realized Roarke seemed distracted, and looked around, only to see Julie babbling at Charlie Atkins, waving her arms and looking so frantic they could see her expression from where they stood. Carrie gasped. "Oh…oh no. Charlie Atkins? _He's_ my fantasy lover?"

"Don't you like him?" Leslie asked in surprise, realizing that if Carrie was Willie's press manager, she must have had a certain amount of contact with Atkins.

Carrie's response was hesitant. "Sure…he's a great guy…super." Then she stiffened and faced Roarke fully. "But he's also bad news. Oh, Mr. Roarke, not Charlie Atkins, not even for a weekend—please?"

"Could it possibly be that you do not wish to see Mr. Atkins get hurt?" was all he said.

She stared at him, and something in her eyes seemed to close down. "Mr. Roarke, you obviously cannot grant my fantasy. So I'm going home on the next plane out." With that, she turned to leave.

"Ms. Wilson, I am going to be extremely frank. I could try to discourage him from fighting; however, in his case, as in yours, I cannot alter a fantasy once it has begun." Leslie shot a look across the grounds and realized that Julie was alone and Atkins was strolling back to a tent, whistling loudly enough for them to hear. "The consequences, whatever they may be, are inevitable."

Carrie's face filled with shock, and Roarke gave her a small, sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry," he said and led Leslie away.

"How'd you know Julie couldn't talk Mr. Atkins out of that match?" Leslie asked.

"You understand, of course, that the effort had to be made, for the sake of Mr. Atkins' safety," Roarke said, and she nodded. "Unfortunately, the man is simply too determined, and perhaps too stubborn, for his own good."

"Yeah, it sure looks that way," Leslie agreed as Julie approached them with a thwarted look. "No dice?"

"Not even one," Julie grumbled. "Mr. Roarke, I think we're just gonna have to go through with this thing and hope for the best." She squinted behind them. "So what about Carrie?"

"I got a feeling she and Mr. Atkins might be dancing around a romance, but she doesn't really want him because she's afraid he'll get flattened in the ring this afternoon," Leslie said. "At least, that's what I figure. I only just found out she has a fantasy and Mr. Roarke's granting it."

"Well, Willie says Carrie's had a lot of bad luck with men," Julie remarked. "So I hope you can help her, Mr. Roarke. She deserves a nice guy, and even if she doesn't think so, Charlie Atkins would be perfect for her."

"The question," Roarke noted, "is whether Ms. Wilson thinks Mr. Atkins would be perfect for her. And we will have to wait to find out the answer."


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - November 8, 1981

"So exactly what's Carrie's problem with Charlie?" Leslie wanted to know, several hours later, when they'd had a fortifying lunch and were headed back to the arena. Roarke had made a discreet check on Dolores de Murcia without revealing himself to her, and had evidently been satisfied with what he saw, since he came back smiling. When Julie and Leslie had questioned him, he had said only that the lady had finally found her objective, namely El Lobo Rojo, and left it at that.

"Ms. Wilson explained it to me Friday afternoon," Roarke said, "when you were still at school. As mentioned, she has had bad luck with men. She admitted that too often, she is attracted to hard-luck cases who need to prove that they are more than they seem to be. And each time, the man has injured either himself or someone else—too often Ms. Wilson—in executing that proof. All she wants, she says, is a 'nice, normal guy'…a man who has no previous issues and is merely looking for a good woman."

"Don't most of us have something to prove, sooner or later?" Leslie asked.

Roarke smiled. "Perhaps not everyone, but more than you might suspect. Both Mr. Atkins and Ms. Wilson will learn something new about themselves and each other this weekend, I believe, so don't write either of them off just yet. We'd better hurry, the match is scheduled to begin in only fifteen minutes."

At the arena they met Willie, Julie and Atkins, the latter two of whom were conferring in low voices. Atkins was clad in satin boxing shorts and a matching robe that said CHARLIE-HORSE on the back. "Charlie-Horse?" Leslie blurted.

Willie overheard her and smirked. "That's his wrestling name, kiddo," he explained. "Carrie thought it up. Charlie-Horse Buchinsky."

She let her eyes roll to one side and whispered dubiously to Roarke, as Willie sauntered away to keep an eye on Sampson Smith. "Even I could think of a better stage name for somebody than to name them after a leg cramp," she muttered.

Roarke stifled a laugh, but he allowed a grin as he glanced at her. "I doubt it will matter much, since this is a one-time event," he assured her. He looked up and the grin died away altogether; Leslie followed his gaze and saw Julie approaching, looking rather grim, wearing a white robe of her own that had been embroidered with her name on the front and the words "Fantasy Island" on the back.

"Well, I guess we'd better get over to the ring," Julie said.

Roarke pinned her with a sharp look. "What do you mean? And why are you wearing that robe?"

"Mr. Atkins is fighting Sampson Smith," Julie said simply.

"Julie, you don't understand—this man is my respon—_your_ responsibility!" scolded Roarke, catching himself in the middle of the word as he'd so often had to do all weekend. "You can't—"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke," Julie insisted, "but Charlie-Horse just won't be talked out of it! So I've decided to help him." With that, she went off to the ring, leaving Roarke and Leslie where they stood.

Giving up on Julie, Roarke instead tried to appeal to their guest. "Mr. Atkins," he said, distracting the man from feinting at shadows near the corner of the ring.

Atkins grinned ferally at him. "Mr. Roarke, put the whole bundle on me," he said. "You'll be able to buy a continent."

Roarke sighed heavily. "I ask you once more—" he began.

"Look, just tell me," Atkins cut him off. "Is she here?"

They knew he meant Carrie Wilson. "No, I'm sorry," Roarke said. "Mr. Atkins—"

"Look, thank you for worrying about me." With that brusque statement, Atkins turned away, putting an end to the whole subject once and for all. Roarke might have persisted nonetheless, except that a bell began clanging, signaling the imminent beginning of the match. Willie had climbed into the ring and now strode out to the center, playing emcee.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the main event! Slayer Sampson, who has demolished a hundred and ninety-nine opponents—most of whom ended up in the hospital—versus Charlie-Horse Buchinsky!" Applause welled up; but despite Roarke's words about Carrie Wilson, Atkins kept peering past the ring with an expectant look on his face.

Roarke noticed. "Ms. Wilson is not coming, Mr. Atkins. She is leaving Fantasy Island this afternoon."

Atkins sighed a little and said gruffly, "Too bad. She's gonna miss a good match." With that he ran over to the ring, and Julie, standing nearby, gave Roarke an impatient look.

"See what I mean?" she whispered at him over her shoulder and followed in Atkins' wake. Roarke sighed and shook his head; Leslie watched them go, squinting in the bright sunlight.

"That man's stubborn enough to be a New Englander," she remarked.

"Indeed," Roarke retorted, "and I suppose you would know all too well." She rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air, and Roarke smiled briefly and faintly before returning his worried gaze to the ring. Atkins and Julie climbed into the corner, with Julie remaining just outside the ropes, to cheers; Sampson Smith clambered up in his turn, to be met with boos. The huge bald man, his dome gleaming moon-like in the sunshine, glared across the ring at Atkins. He shifted slightly, and Leslie caught the movement of his right hand curling almost behind him. She watched intently as Sampson's trainer secreted something in the wrestler's beefy hand. She shot a swift glance around the ring, but no one else seemed to have noticed.

The bell clanged and the match finally got under way; the two opponents couldn't have been in the ring more than ten seconds when Sampson hoisted his right hand and smeared it across Atkins' face, particularly over his eyes. Atkins staggered back as Sampson pushed him, then reeled drunkenly aside, crying, "I can't see—I can't see!"

Leslie gasped. "Mr. Roarke, Sampson just cheated!" she hissed and hurriedly described to him what she had seen. Roarke listened with a frown, but when she finished, he could only shake his head.

"I don't doubt that you saw it happen, child," he said heavily, "but I am afraid you would have to prove it."

"Well, I know what I saw," she maintained. "If he blinded Mr. Atkins with something, and if he uses that stuff in all his matches, then no wonder he always wins. He always _cheats_, that's why." Someone drew up to the ringside a short distance away, and she registered this arrival with a surprised grab of Roarke's arm. "Hey, look—it's Ms. Wilson!"

By now Sampson had Atkins' head under the bottom rope a few feet away from where they stood, and was pounding his head against the floor. Atkins was blinking furiously and tears were pouring from his eyes in a reflexive attempt to wash away Sampson's irritant. All of a sudden those eyes grew wide and focused. "Carrie, you came back!" he blurted out.

"Yeah, just call me crazy," Carrie said self-deprecatingly, smiling.

It was as if her presence gave Atkins extra strength. The onlookers gaped as Atkins twisted himself out of Sampson's grasp, rolled onto his back and lifted his feet, which he used to give Sampson a hefty shove backwards. Julie lit up with sudden hope, watching wide-eyed while Atkins grabbed Sampson by one arm and heaved him across the ring, then actually hoisted the bigger man onto his shoulders and began to wind up as if getting ready to send him sailing right out of the arena. Then he paused, staring at Carrie Wilson; Leslie looked too and saw her watching with an anxious look on her features. For several moments they stood there, staring at each other; then Atkins grunted, dropped Sampson unceremoniously onto the floor of the ring and strode away from him.

Sampson hauled himself up, but before he could go anywhere his trainer grabbed his arm while Atkins climbed down from the ring and headed for the tents. "Hold it," the trainer said in annoyance, drawing Leslie's attention.

"I can do it," Sampson protested.

"You're through," the trainer shot back, disgusted. "He has something you never had and never will have—class!" With that, he let go, jumped off the ring and left. Leslie blinked in amazement, then noticed Carrie gazing after Charlie Atkins and reflected, _She looks like she just realized the exact same thing._

From beside her, Roarke said suddenly, "Why don't you wait here with Julie, Leslie. I'll be back as soon as I can." He departed with long, purposeful strides, and Leslie shrugged to herself and headed for the tents, following Julie who was half-running after Atkins, just disappearing into one of the tents.

"Hey, wait," she called.

Julie heard and paused to let her catch up. "Where's uncle?" she asked low.

"He had to leave," said Leslie, "but he said he'd be back. What're you gonna do?"

Julie hesitated, staring uncertainly at Atkins' tent. "I'm not sure. But let's give Charlie a few minutes by himself before we go in and bug him. He must be feeling really bummed right about now."

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke stepped into the huge empty ballroom, laced with cobwebs and coated with dust, and picked up the guitar that rested against a table, picking a few notes on it here and there. It had been a long time, but… He recalled some unimaginably old melody, as old perhaps as the instrument itself, and slowly played it from memory, closing his eyes now and then. Just at the end of the song, he paused, then called out to nobody, "Your fantasy is over."

Suddenly Dolores de Murcia materialized out of what seemed to be thin air, dressed in brilliant scarlet and poised as if holding a saber on someone. She blinked and stared at him, straightening slowly up. Reading the quizzical expression on her face, seeing her out of breath from what must have been a very energetic fencing match, he grinned at her and played the final flourish of the song, knowing full well what had happened, as he always did. "You received your money's worth after all, Ms. de Murcia. Two El Lobos for the price of one!" And as she approached him, he handed her a red satin bandanna, redolent with a very expensive and rare Spanish perfume.

She was wordless, perhaps from the transition, as she followed him into the early evening. Once outside, though, she suddenly let out a soft laugh, so unlike her overly ebullient personality. "I did, didn't I?" she exclaimed. "I met El Lobo Rojo, and I was able to be El Lobo Rojo when he could not!" Her delighted look turned into a giant grin and then a slap-dancing jiggle, and she threw the bandanna high into the air. _"Olé!"_ she shouted exuberantly, and Roarke laughed and accompanied her back to her bungalow.

‡ ‡ ‡

Having settled Dolores for the evening, Roarke retreated to the arena where now Julie and Leslie occupied Charlie Atkins' tent with him; he hadn't yet changed from his boxers and was lying stomach-down on a table while Julie massaged his shoulders. Leslie sat on a nearby table, feet dangling idly back and forth. Roarke slipped quietly inside just as Atkins said despondently, "I'm sorry, Julie. I just couldn't hurt him."

"Don't apologize, Charlie," Julie said, kneading his muscles. "You're just not a killer. You're a gentleman."

Roarke smiled. "Julie is right, Mr. Atkins," he said, startling all three occupants. "You are also a winner—that's what you are."

"And I agree," Julie concurred. "Shake!" At that, Atkins laughed and obliged her; Julie peered at their clasped hands in surprise and asked, "Is that the strongest you can grip my hand?"

Atkins tried to tighten his grasp, but Julie didn't appear to notice much difference, if any. "Yeah," he said, sounding mildly surprised himself.

Julie looked up then. "Mr. Roarke—his strength, it's gone!"

"The potion just wore off, that's all," Leslie commented.

"Yes," said Roarke. "Mr. Atkins knew that I—that _you_ had no way of predicting when the strength would leave his muscles. I'm sorry, Mr. Atkins." Atkins looked enormously disappointed.

There was silence for a moment, before they heard Carrie Wilson's tentative voice outside the tent ask, "Charlie, may I come in?"

"No!" Charlie burst out, scrambling into a sitting position.

Leslie stared at him and then at Roarke, who called out, "Just one moment, Ms. Wilson." Atkins blew out his breath, shooting the tent entrance an uneasy glance.

"Just tell her it's my fault," Julie suggested.

"I don't want to see her," Atkins announced. "Just tell her that she looked in my eyes and saw a guy with guts…and he was a fake."

Roarke spoke up: "Oh, on the contrary. You came here hoping to learn how to stand up to men who took advantage of you, didn't you? Well…"

"Sure," Atkins said. "As long as the freak potion lasted!"

"I disagree. Oh, the potion was a mistake. I hate to keep mentioning that, Julie…" Roarke tossed her an apologetic glance; she smiled without rancor, and Leslie grinned. "But it placed you in a fantasy beyond anything I'd—Julie had planned. And it was wonderful. You stood up to that man in the ring, and despite what he did to you, you ignored the taunts of the crowd and refused to harm him. Why, that took incredible inner strength, Mr. Atkins. No potion could ever give that to you." He smiled and went over to stand beside Julie, then called, "Come in, Ms. Wilson."

Leslie hopped down from the table and fell in beside her guardian while Carrie Wilson sidled into the tent, ventured around the table, leaned over and plopped a kiss on Charlie Atkins' lips. Julie and Leslie both grinned widely. Atkins stared at her in astonishment, then leaped off the table and into Carrie's arms. While they stood hugging and kissing and chortling happily, Leslie remarked, "No potion could ever do that either, Mr. Roarke!"

"Indeed," Roarke agreed with a smile and turned to his goddaughter, with a hand on Leslie's shoulder. "You see, some things are inevitable, Julie!"

"Guess so," Julie murmured, beaming as she gazed at Atkins and Carrie. Roarke and Leslie exchanged looks and smiles.

§ § § - November 9, 1981

Roarke handed Dolores de Murcia out of the first car on Monday morning, and she thanked him in Spanish, then smiled at all three of them. _"Ay, amigos._ I have a confession to make."

"What's that?" inquired Roarke.

"When I came here, I was thinking of giving up my music. But you know what? I have learned that my guitar can be mightier than the sword."

Roarke smiled. "You lift people up, just as El Lobo Rojo did."

"Now I know he was real," Dolores said proudly. "And he won his fight."

"With your help," put in Roarke.

She nodded. "And I will win mine, with his. _Adios, señor Roarke, y muchas, muchas gracias."_ She turned to Julie and then Leslie, repeating the final three words to both girls as she shook their hands. Then she stepped back and exclaimed, "What a fantasy!" before releasing a cheerful whoop that made everyone in the plane-dock clearing look around. Her hosts laughed, waving her onto the plane.

When Charlie Atkins and Carrie Wilson arrived in the next car, Roarke eyed the former curiously. "Mr. Atkins, I understand you tried to fly out before dawn?"

"That's right, Mr. Roarke." Atkins grinned. "I can't wait to get back home and start my rise to the top. Thank you, Julie…hope all your future mistakes are great ones." That brought general laughter and a sheepish snicker from Julie.

"Yes," Roarke observed, "Julie did manage to turn potential disaster into victory, didn't she?" Julie began to turn red, but her smile just got bigger.

"Thank you," she said and glanced at her godfather. "Both."

"And good luck in your search, Ms. Wilson," Leslie added a little shyly.

Carrie grinned at her. "No luck necessary, Leslie." She took Atkins' arm and beamed at all three of them. "My search just ended."

"Well…congratulations, Mr. Atkins!" Roarke said, and Leslie congratulated Carrie as well; they all traded handshakes and farewells, and Julie gazed after them with shining eyes. Her face took on a self-important look that made Leslie stare at her.

Suddenly Julie said smugly, "Face it, Mr. Roarke, I'm pretty good at arranging fantasies, even when I goof."

Leslie grinned openly when she saw Roarke kill a smile, just before he turned to the older girl and inquired, "Julie, will you please do me a favor?"

"Certainly, Mr. Roarke," Julie said. "What?"

"Stop fantasizing," he said bluntly and turned to wave at their departing guests one last time. Leslie simply couldn't help herself and giggled loudly, so that she wound up partaking in the disillusioned look Julie threw at Roarke. But both she and her guardian knew Julie would get over it quickly enough.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"Huh, that'll teach ye to be so smug, me lass," Rogan remarked. "Two weeks' experience an' ye had the idea that ye could go off an' arrange any fantasy ye liked all on yer own, hm?" He smirked while Julie bopped him in the bicep.

"You rogue," she said mildly. "You can drop the accent, too, Mr. Look-At-Me-I'm-Irish. I'm sure Josh is thoroughly impressed by now." Josh just grinned at that, and a short lull ensued while everyone, particularly Roarke, Leslie and Julie, took deep drafts of their respective beverages.

Then Rory, growing impatient, broke the silence. "So c'mon, what happened next?"

Leslie and Roarke looked at each other and both smiled broadly at the same time. "A real fantasy-type fantasy, if you get my drift," said Leslie. "On both counts. There were some seriously interesting entities the next weekend Julie helped us out."

"Indeed so," Roarke agreed. "I believe you'll enjoy this one. Do you recall it yet, Julie?"

Julie was squinching up her face, clearly scrabbling through her memory. Finally she shook her head, looking as if that were the last thing on earth she wanted to do. "Drat it, no," she complained. "What was it again?"

"The ghost and the angel," Leslie supplied succinctly.

Julie shifted her eyeballs so that she was looking at Leslie, but didn't move otherwise, and didn't change expression. "Huh?"

Roarke laughed. "Perhaps Leslie will alleviate your misery by beginning for us."


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § - January 2, 1982

To Leslie's utter astonishment, Roarke headed straight out of the house and to the car that morning without waiting for either Julie or Tattoo; for that matter, Leslie was forced to run to keep up with him. She didn't have a chance even to ask Roarke where Tattoo and Julie were; the car simply pulled out of the lane, as if they were in a hurry, and she was too busy trying to hold herself in place to open her mouth. She did, however, glance back just in time to catch a small figure in white crossing the side lawn of the house. _Oops, Julie's late!_ she thought, wondering what was going on.

As for Julie, all she saw was the back of the rover disappearing down the lane and around a curve. "Mr. Roarke, wait for me!" she shouted, but she knew even as she said it that she was too late. Bewildered, she loitered a few moments in the yard, watching the laughing native girls streaming past, then hailed another approaching car and got in. She supposed Leslie must have gone with Roarke to wherever he'd taken off to, and hoped to get the story later on.

Roarke and Leslie's rover took them down past the settlement where Michiko, Myeko and Camille lived—a small collection of three or four short unpaved streets with a few houses apiece on them—and towards the Enclave before pulling over and stopping along a wooded cliff. For the first time Roarke seemed to realize someone else had managed to catch his ride. "So you made it after all," he said humorously. "Do you care to come with me? I warn you, you may not believe what you see."

"I'll take that chance," Leslie said firmly and jumped out of the car to catch up with him. "Really, you were in such a hurry, I thought something was on fire." Roarke grinned at that, then gestured her along behind him as he began to follow a well-worn trail.

The sea this morning was distinctly foggy, Leslie noticed, alternating her attention between keeping up with her guardian and checking out the scenery. After less than five minutes of walking, he stopped at a small clear patch between trees, stared out to sea, and then raised one arm. Leslie inched a little closer to him when a large patch of the fog began to darken and roll ponderously, as if getting ready to invade.

"This way, child," Roarke said and started down a narrow branch of the trail that wound down the cliff toward a beach, which wasn't very far below. She picked her way along after him, casting the occasional hasty glance at the billowing fog. Once or twice she thought she saw the outlines of old-fashioned ship masts, but they disappeared too quickly for her to be very sure.

Roarke paused in front of a small cave and waited quietly, his expression inexplicably grim. Leslie hugged herself in the middle of an odd, damp chill that seemed to blow in from the water, ahead of the fog, and she waited to be engulfed; but instead, the fog spoke—or so it seemed. "Rooooooarke? Are you there?"

"Yes, Captain," Roarke called back. "You have permission to come ashore."

"Who's that?" Leslie asked, almost in a whisper.

"You'll see in a moment," Roarke promised. "Come with me." She trailed him down the last few steps to the damp sand, where they paused and watched till the fog regurgitated a small dinghy, containing just one man. He was dressed in plain, old-fashioned clothing, at least a couple of centuries old, Leslie supposed; and a sword hung at his side. He seemed old; his hair was mostly white, with a grayish tinge, and he sported a neatly trimmed beard. He beached the skiff, climbed out and approached them. Roarke met him and they stopped to gaze at each other, as if wary.

At last the man spoke. "Seven more years have passed, Roarke."

Roarke said gravely, "Again, I bid welcome to Captain Henrik van Hoortman, wonder of the seven seas—the legendary Flying Dutchman." This he said by way of introduction for Leslie's benefit; she kept silent out of awe and some intimidation, staring fascinated at the proceedings. "What can I do for you, Captain?"

"Give me a fantasy, Roarke," said Captain van Hoortman intensely. "A fantasy of my own, one that will free me of my curse of endless wandering."

Roarke shook his head slightly. "Only love can lift your curse, Captain," he said. "Is it then your fantasy, to find love?"

"Yes. For God's sake, help me, man!" Van Hoortman raised one fist and clenched it, as if to emphasize his plea. For a long, tense moment, Roarke glanced at the fist, then at van Hoortman, as if pondering. Leslie stood almost holding her breath. What would her guardian's verdict be?

‡ ‡ ‡

At the plane dock, Julie had been pacing for almost ten minutes, staring helplessly as the plane taxied into the lagoon and was moored at the dock, frequently checking her watch and growing ever more frantic. At last she heard a car engine nearby and turned, blowing out her breath with enormous relief when she saw Roarke in the front seat and Leslie just behind him. They got out quickly and joined her; Julie opened her mouth to blurt out a whole raft of questions, but Roarke neatly cut her off before she could emit a sound. "Smile," he said, and produced a small one of his own. "Smile!" On Julie's frustrated expression, he turned to his gathered employees and reminded them, "Smiles, everyone!" before signaling at the band and the dancers. Julie, unable to get a rise out of Roarke, looked expectantly at Leslie, who could only shake her head. She was still overawed after what she'd seen. With a snort of disgust and a few more reproachful looks at Roarke, Julie buttoned her suit jacket and turned with the others to face the new arrivals.

The first person to emerge from the seaplane's hatch was a petite, slender woman with blonde hair cut in a wedge; she had a wide, pixyish face and a broad smile. "Ms. Laura Miles, from Terre Haute, Indiana," Roarke introduced her. "Test your powers of deduction, Julie: what can you tell me about her?"

Given something else to focus on, Julie brightened and studied the guest. "Hm. She's successful," she offered after a few seconds.

"Very," Roarke agreed. "The self-made president of her own company."

"Very sharp and stylish," Julie remarked. "I'd guess…the clothing business."

Roarke looked impressed. "Excellent, Julie, excellent! She's a designer with her own line of leisure wear."

Julie nodded thoughtfully, and Leslie peered at the woman, a connection abruptly snapping into place in her head. "I bet her fantasy is to find love," she said.

Roarke nodded approvingly at her. "It is her fantasy to find a different type of man—old-fashioned and self-reliant, yet with dash and flair." Leslie gave him a knowing look, and he smiled.

"Do you have the kind of man she wants, Mr. Roarke?" Julie queried, sounding a little skeptical. But Roarke only smiled again.

"Oh, indeed I do, Julie. Unfortunately, he is one whose fantasy is also to find love, but for his special need—which may require Ms. Miles to be willing to make an ultimate commitment…and sacrifice." His voice sounded gently ominous, and Leslie's stomach fluttered. If he meant to put Laura Miles and Captain Henrik van Hoortman together, did that mean Ms. Miles would have to give up everything to be with him?

Roarke's attention shifted to a couple climbing out of the plane; they seemed to be in their early forties, a few years younger perhaps than Laura Miles. The woman looked delighted by her surroundings; her male companion seemed upbeat and excited. "Mr. Ronald Price and his wife, Elaine, from Humboldt, Nebraska," Roarke said. "Mr. Price, who is a youth welfare worker by profession, is working to fulfill his dream of creating a wonderful free home for orphans." He winked at Leslie.

"Well," said Julie, "that's an easy one to guess. His fantasy is to have you help him."

"Close…but it's actually Mrs. Price's fantasy: that her husband be granted whatever it takes for him to accomplish his unselfish goal. However, there is one complication."

"Isn't there always?" Leslie remarked, a little cynically.

"A tough one, Mr. Roarke?" Julie asked.

Roarke nodded gravely. "Very tough indeed. You see, Mr. Price suffers from a lack of self-confidence. His last chance to raise the necessary funds means he'll have to convince Mr. J.D. Stoneman to finance the entire project."

Even Leslie was stunned by this announcement; she and Julie stared at him in dismay. "You mean the J.D. Stoneman you told us about?" Julie exclaimed.

"Yes," Roarke confirmed.

"Well, from what you said," Leslie put in with annoyance, "he's the world's original skinflint tightwad!" She and Julie and Tattoo had made any number of disparaging jokes about this; Julie had said Stoneman's picture was next to the definition of "miser" in the dictionary, to which Tattoo had shot back, "What definition? His picture _is_ the definition!" They had laughed for a good while at that notion, but now neither Leslie nor Julie could find anything funny about the situation.

"Yes," Roarke said again.

"Well, good luck," Julie offered in a voice that was obviously sincere, but which also conveyed her relief that she herself didn't have to attempt to cajole money out of the man.

"Yes, we will need luck," Roarke agreed, and then smiled for some reason and peered into the bright blue sky overhead. "And some very, very special assistance." Before either of the girls could pursue this cryptic remark, a native girl presented Roarke with his customary glass, with which he toasted their newest guests.

‡ ‡ ‡

Within the hour they had arrived at the Hilltop Bungalow; by now, Julie knew what had happened at the beach, once Roarke had given Leslie permission to tell the older girl what she had seen there. Julie gaped at her as if unsure whether to believe a word she said; but Roarke's sober countenance confirmed every syllable. Still, she had to ask. "Is he really the Flying Dutchman?"

"Yes, Julie," Roarke said. "He is, and was, Captain van Hoortman of the Royal Holland Navy." He picked up the aging sword that Captain van Hoortman had left lying on a table and examined it.

"What was his crime?" Julie wanted to know.

Roarke smoothly withdrew the sword from its scabbard. "Frustrated by headwinds in his pursuit of the Spanish fleet around Cape Horn, he defied the heavens and God himself, for denying the victory he felt belonged to him." He resheathed the sword. "For this blasphemy, he was condemned to endlessly repeat that voyage, and to always fail in his attempt to sail around Cape Horn against the stormy seas."

As he was speaking the last few words, the bedroom door opened and Captain van Hoortman himself emerged, having exchanged his original clothing for modern-day togs. He eyed Roarke almost as if in anger, then carefully checked his expression and approached his host. "But I can be released, can't I, Roarke?"

"Yes. Once each seven years, the captain is allowed to leave his ship for two short days to search for a woman's love: a supreme love, which will cancel out his debt and set him free." He aimed this last at Julie and Leslie, who nodded comprehension.

Captain van Hoortman's face grew wistful in its grim, almost desperate way, and he wandered around the table, murmuring, "Oh, finally…to be able to sail around that cursed cape, and find peace at last."

Julie had been watching with a romantic glow about her; now she offered, "I think many women could fall in love with you, Captain."

Van Hoortman speared her with a look. "What? Totally, sacrificially, to the death?" Julie's face fell, and she stood abashed, staring at her toes. "In three hundred years, I haven't found her. But I will." He stared at Roarke. "This time I will, won't I, Roarke?"

"We shall see, Captain," Roarke responded, hedging his bets, as ever. "We shall see." His gaze drifted to the model ship that stood proudly on the table near the sword; they all stared at it, and Leslie took a moment to wrench her gaze away and study Captain van Hoortman. She noticed now that he had rid himself of the beard and had his pale-gray hair trimmed as well; he looked like any other present-day guest, having a vacation at the world's most popular resort. She wanted to reassure him, but after his reaction to Julie's encouraging words, she felt it better to keep quiet. _Everybody falls in love here. No reason he can't do it too. But then again, do ghosts fall in love?_ Can _they fall in love?_

Preoccupied by this question, she remained silent all the way back to the main house, where Roarke became suddenly all business. "I have an urgent appointment that I absolutely cannot be late for. Leslie, please, if you will—take care of the incoming mail, and answer any calls that may come in."

"Where are we going, Mr. Roarke?" Julie asked with anticipation, while Leslie took Roarke's chair behind the desk. She was still too consumed with Captain van Hoortman's problem to worry much about the Price fantasy.

But Roarke stopped short and pinned Julie with a look that made her blink in surprise. _"We_ are not going anywhere." Equally surprised by his tone, Leslie looked up too, distracted at last. "I must go alone, for in order to convince this assistant to lend the needed expertise to this fantasy, it will take…shall we say, some delicate finessing. I'd appreciate it greatly if you would make the usual rounds for me. In fact, you might pay a little visit to Ms. Miles and inform her that I will be speaking with her before another hour has passed. You should make sure she is comfortably settled, and let her know what and where the amenities are. I'll be back later." So saying, he headed out of the house, carrying a small white box in one hand.

For a flabbergasted moment or two, Julie gawked after him; then she jerked into life and scrambled out in his wake, leaving Leslie giggling at her frenetic haste to get out. Julie chased Roarke down the veranda. "Hold it—wait, please." Roarke stopped at the foot of the steps and let her catch up, exasperated and resigned all at once. Sure enough, Julie skidded to a stop in front of him and demanded, "Why can't I go with you?"

Some of that exasperation shone through in his rapid retort. "I am sorry, Julie, but as I explained, the assistant I need to help Mrs. Price realize her fantasy is very special, and requires…a great delicacy of approach." He started away, but Julie caught his arm before folding her own over her chest.

"Why do I get the feeling you're holding out on me?" she inquired suspiciously.

"I have no idea," Roarke replied, with the utmost innocence.

They stood staring at each other; then Julie extended an arm, almost as if challenging him, and said, "Good luck."

"Thank you," Roarke replied and began to leave again, then paused as something occurred to him and he turned back to her. "Uh…you are not thinking of following me, of course," he said, half questioning, half warning.

"Who, me?" Julie exclaimed.

"Yes," Roarke said instantly.

Julie eased one hand behind her back and crossed her fingers before reaching up with the other hand and making an invisible X over her heart. That seemed to satisfy Roarke, and he said, "Good," before finally making his escape. Julie stood watching him go for long enough to let him get a good head start on her; then she uncrossed her fingers, made a motion as if to brush the X off her chest, and sauntered away after him.

She thought she was doing a fine job of shadowing him; but in her innate naïveté, she forgot one very basic, yet very important, fact: that Roarke knew everything that went on around his island. So of course, he was well and truly aware that she was trailing him. He'd known that Leslie's faraway mien was the only reason she hadn't taken Julie's example and demanded to accompany him, otherwise he'd have had two bloodhounds on his scent. It was bad enough he had the one. Well, it couldn't be helped. He emerged from a back path into a small clearing, set the white box atop a half-buried boulder, and carefully lifted the lid to reveal some mysterious glass object. Julie could just barely see a few rainbow twinkles from the interior as the sunlight bounced off the trinket; she frowned and stared harder as Roarke lifted the item out of the box. It proved to be a small, delicate lead-crystal bell.

All of a sudden he spoke. "As long as you are here, you may as well satisfy your female curiosity, Julie!" His voice rose into an annoyed cadence with the last four words, and Julie's face grew crimson with abashed mortification as she stepped away from the tree she had been hiding behind and joined Roarke in the clearing.

For a moment he regarded her with the sort of stern paternal glare he might have given Leslie, before relenting and shaking his head with a huff of amusement. Even more abashed, Julie peered up at him from under her brows and admitted in a small voice, "I uncrossed my heart."

"So I see," Roarke observed, amused. "Now, please—complete silence."

His serious demeanor precluded Julie even from nodding in acknowledgement; she just looked on with wide eyes while he reached for the box lid and extracted a little mallet with a white head and a silver handle. Julie watched as he firmly struck the mallet against the bell; for all their size, the result was titanic. The clear, high-pitched _clang_ reverberated around the clearing, so overwhelming that Julie slipped her hands over her ears, wincing. Roarke seemed unaffected, merely listening. After a few seconds a colorful, undulating blob of light materialized in the sky, some distance over the treetops, and swiftly and gracefully descended to the ground a few yards from them. There it coalesced into a lovely woman who looked a little older than Julie, with a froth of tarnished-gold curls, clad in a voluminous white gown and sporting…were those wings? Entranced, Julie only superficially registered this detail, delighted by what she saw.

"Hello, Roarke," the woman greeted him with a bright smile.

Julie watched, mesmerized, as Roarke advanced to take the woman's hands. She received him with a happy light in her eyes. "It's been a long, long time, hasn't it?"

Roarke smiled, lifted one of her hands and kissed it gently, in a charming old-world gesture that entranced Julie. "Much too long," he agreed softly.

They stood staring at each other, with the air of lovers parted for decades, Julie thought, before Roarke seemed to remember where he was and turned to indicate her. "Oh, you have never met my assistant, Julie." Spellbound, she stared at the woman, and he prompted, "Julie…"

She blinked and shook herself out of her trance, then approached the pair, her curiosity rising with every step. "May I present Miss Harbinger, who has come to provide the special assistance I mentioned."

"Hello, Julie," Miss Harbinger said warmly.

The spell seemed even stronger closer up. "Mr. Roarke, she's…like an angel," Julie breathed in wonder.

Roarke only smiled a little and exchanged a knowing glance with Miss Harbinger, who looked vastly amused in her own turn. Roarke had to admit he was looking forward to the weekend, but at the same time he knew that at some point—if he was to be fair—he was going to have to introduce Leslie to the lady as well, or there could well be a long and unpleasant round of jealousy to deal with. Well, that was for later. "If you ladies will come with me, we can begin our business."

He took them both to the Prices' bungalow and introduced everyone; Julie, to his gratification, had been silent with enchanted awe all the way there and seemed too overwhelmed to say very much. _Very unlike her,_ Roarke found himself thinking fondly. He could only imagine Leslie's reaction had she been there, especially since somewhere along the way, without Julie having seen it, Miss Harbinger had managed to trade in her white robe and even the feathery wings for more down-to-earth attire.

Putting his mind to the matter at hand, he explained Miss Harbinger's presence there and concluded with, "So you see, Mrs. Price, Miss Harbinger's long background of outstanding accomplishment of…um, sales work, of the highest order, will be an invaluable aid to your husband in his interview with Mr. Stoneman."

Elaine Price seemed both reserved and skeptical. "I'm sure you must know what you're doing, Mr. Roarke, and Miss Harbinger is more than…charming…" Miss Harbinger nodded, and Elaine nodded back once, but focused on Roarke. "…but is charm all it's going to take? This fantasy took our last dollar, and this is Ron's very last chance."

Even Miss Harbinger seemed to sober up at Elaine's urgently businesslike mood. "Any goal of value takes more than mere charm, Mrs. Price," Roarke said. "It will take great confidence, and assurance in himself, on the part of your husband; and that is precisely where Miss Harbinger can be of the greatest assistance to him."

"I'm delighted that I can help," Miss Harbinger assured Elaine with a broad smile.

Just then Ronald Price burst in, looking thrilled and excited. "Honey!" He shut the door and hurried down the steps, digging something out of his pocket. "Here's a copy of the telegram I just wrote. He can't refuse it—"

"Mr. Price," Roarke broke in as Elaine reached for the page, and Ronald turned as if he hadn't seen his host there at all.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Roarke," he said, surprised.

"Excuse me…may I present your new assistant, Miss Harbinger." He brought his companion forward, and Price blinked once and then stared, as if hypnotized.

"I'm so looking forward to working with you, Mr. Price," she said, extending a hand and flashing that delightfully sincere smile.

Price gaped at her for so long that his wife's face took on a faintly alarmed look, and Roarke looked on with a touch of concern. Finally Price gulped, "Me too. I-I mean, thank you." He seemed to sway a little on his feet, and Elaine stared at him.

Roarke gathered himself. "Yes, well…I suggest that the three of you consult immediately on the most appropriate strategy of presenting your proposal. Perhaps a study of Mr. Stoneman's psychological profile…which I can produce…would be helpful." Even Roarke's voice trailed off in the face of Price's sheer fascination with Miss Harbinger.

Elaine began to grow disgruntled, and moved in behind her husband in attempt to break the spell. "Ron," she said, touching his shoulder, "don't you think Mr. Roarke's suggestion is a good one?"

"What?" he muttered, never taking his eyes off Miss Harbinger. "Oh no. No, let's stand here. Later." Roarke's eyebrows lifted, and he eyed Price, then let his glance slide to his longtime friend, who merely smiled innocently. He carefully concealed his disconcertion; he had to admit, deep inside, that it had been so long since the last time he'd seen her that he'd forgotten her effect on people—especially men.

He made some plausible excuse and took his leave with a small measure of relief, telling himself that he had too much else to attend to, and that he must trust his old friend to know how to comport herself properly. Well, of course she knew that. She would promptly lose her position if she didn't, he reminded himself. He put the matter from his mind and headed for the main house to collect Julie and Leslie so that they could pick up Laura Miles and put her in touch with the captain.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § - January 2, 1982

They found Captain van Hoortman at the same beach where Roarke and Leslie had first met him that morning; he was pacing the sand, gazing out to sea, and turned to watch when Roarke, Leslie and the women came down the path onto the sand. "Ms. Laura Miles," Roarke said, "may I present Captain Henrik van Hoortman."

Laura Miles stretched out a hand to shake. "Captain?"

"My great pleasure, madam," he said and lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Laura seemed surprised by the gesture, casting Roarke a look that showed she was impressed by the captain's manners, before smiling and turning back to him.

"Laura, please," she said.

"Forgive me, my etiquette may be a little rusty," van Hoortman said, smiling back. "I don't get much opportunity to meet and talk to a beautiful lady."

"You're doing just fine," Laura replied, openly flattered.

"Well…if you won't take offense, I…I brought you a present." Van Hoortman lifted a necklace out of his jacket pocket and raised it so they could all see. It was very old, Leslie realized instantly, judging from the size of the smoky-blue sapphires that hung from the silver chain. Julie's eyes went wide with disbelief.

"Oh, it's beautiful," Laura breathed, amazed.

"Spanish, seventeenth century," Roarke said, and then as if in an afterthought, "I believe." He smiled at Laura, but Leslie had to squelch a grin. _You believe, huh?_ she thought with a small uncontrollable smirk.

Laura tried to demur. "Oh, Captain, I really can't accept this present from you."

"It would please me very much if you would," van Hoortman urged. "Roarke, uh…perhaps you'll put it on her, eh?"

Roarke gently ushered Laura over to stand in front of the captain with her back to him and said smilingly, "That should be your pleasure, Captain." They watched while van Hoortman hooked the jewels around Laura's neck; then he said, "Well, you seem to be get-ting on well, so if you'll excuse us. Julie, Leslie?" Leslie took a step away, but paused when Julie didn't move, staring at the necklace. Roarke had to prompt her once more before she yanked her eyes off it and reluctantly came after them.

Near the steps back to the road, Julie stopped them both and remarked enviously, "Nothing like a hundred-thousand-dollar necklace to get a girl's attention! I bet she falls in love with him."

"Aw, Julie, you're a hopeless romantic," Leslie teased. Julie just grinned.

But Roarke was solemn. "He must try to make that happen before he can ask her to marry him."

"Naturally," said Julie, glancing back at the beach.

"Ah, but there is much more to it than that, Julie," Roarke said softly. "Marriage will free him of his curse and let him finally find peace…but only if she would be willing to die for him before they wed."

"Die!" Julie and Leslie both blurted in exact unison, and Roarke nodded. Julie pressed him, "But Mr. Roarke, shouldn't we warn her?"

Roarke shook his head. "The captain is a tortured man; he must tell her the truth. Always before, that confession has cost him the love he so desperately needs." He let his gaze rest on the couple on the sand for a few seconds while Julie and Leslie stared at each other in horror; then he said quietly, "Come, we'd better go now." Slowly they followed him back to the car, silent with dismay and disillusionment.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke had chided both girls on the way back to the main house for their glum silence, so Leslie at least had tried to focus on something else and found herself thinking about J.D. Stoneman, who of course owned one of the biggest houses in the Enclave and was currently in residence there. Roarke had met the man, but she herself hadn't, and had begun to wonder exactly what he was like. "Okay," she said as Roarke pulled the car into the lane, "if we can't brood over how unfair it is that a woman has to die to break Captain van Hoortman's curse, then I can ask you about Mr. Stoneman. Is he really a mean old skinflint?"

Roarke, about to answer, was cut off by Julie. "Don't you read magazines, Leslie? Of course he is. He's notorious for it. It's common knowledge that he's had dozens of charities come to him, asking him to help finance their good works, and he always turns them down. Every single one of them! It doesn't matter what it's for, he won't back it up. He doesn't seem to care about anything or anyone except himself and his own welfare."

Astonished, Leslie stared at her guardian. "Is that really true, Mr. Roarke?"

"Well, I don't find it wise to believe every word I read in a celebrity magazine," he said, eyeing Julie in the mirror as he spoke, "but in this case it is indeed true. Mr. Stoneman does not support any charitable work at all; he never has. Which is why it will take a great deal of intestinal fortitude for Mr. Price to break through that wall of his."

"Not even with the help of Miss Harbinger?" Julie asked in disbelief.

Leslie twisted around in the front seat to get a better look at her. "Hey, you know something? You cheated. Mr. Roarke specifically said he had go meet her alone, but you just sneaked in after him and got to see something you weren't supposed to. I really resent that, you know. It's not the least bit fair that you got to meet this supposed paragon and I haven't even seen her in passing yet."

"Well, I _am_ Mr. Roarke's assistant," Julie pointed out primly.

"And what am I, a fly on the wall?" Leslie shot back, peeved.

"Ladies, please," Roarke intervened, pulling up beside the fountain and stopping the car. "Aren't the two of you a little old for such sisterly arguments? And you aren't even sisters, which makes it all the more absurd."

"But Mr. Roarke—" they both began.

Roarke lifted both hands, and they subsided. "Leslie, I can assure you, you will have your chance to meet Miss Harbinger before the weekend is over. And Julie, she does have a point: you know, and knew at the time, that you should have remained behind as I asked you to do, while I summoned Miss Harbinger. Perhaps, as penance for that, you should go on luau duty this evening. Leslie, you can make any necessary rounds with me."

"Okay, I can live with that," Leslie agreed.

Julie sighed. "Oh, all right. But luau duty's so boring."

"Indeed?" Roarke inquired, a little acidly. "May I remind you that most of our guests attend the luau sooner or later, and you might check into their welfare while you're there, so that you can banish your visions of loitering on the edges, gorging yourself on the buffet food and longing to be somewhere you shouldn't be."

Julie sighed again, and Leslie, who had been watching, finally had a chance to break in with a question. "So Mr. Roarke…why didn't you want anyone to come with you when you went to summon Miss Harbinger?" Roarke gave her a look, which she fielded with a certain righteous indignation. "There's no point in holding it back from me, you know. After all, Julie saw it happen, even if she wasn't supposed to. Whatever secret there is, it's out now, so it'd be kind of silly to keep it anymore."

"Are they teaching logic in the high school these days?" Roarke asked rhetorically, but without any real resentment, as they followed him across the veranda. Leslie laughed, and even Julie managed a grin; he returned them in good spirit. "Miss Harbinger is…shall we say, not quite of this world."

"She has to be an angel," Julie maintained. "She came down out of the sky, she was wearing all white, and she had wings. I might've missed the halo, but I'm sure there was one of those too. The only thing she didn't have was a harp."

Leslie grinned slyly. "You and Mr. Roarke are wearing all white too," she said. "Does that make you angels?" Julie glared at her, and Roarke laughed.

"I think that will do, ladies. Let's have a little lunch," he suggested, " and then we'll parcel out duties for the afternoon."

Around eight that evening, after a light supper, they all headed for the clearing where the luau was always held. Julie was certain in spite of Roarke's words that she'd be bored to death and most likely eat far too much in the bargain. But almost as soon as she got there, she realized she was going to be wrong after all; along with a crowd of others around a low square table, watching the fire dancers and eating a lavish spread, were Captain van Hoortman and Laura Miles, sitting together and looking as if they were really enjoying themselves. Julie headed right for them and squatted beside them. "Hi, Captain, Ms. Miles. Can I get you anything?"

"At this moment, I think I have everything I want," Laura replied with a broad grin. Julie beamed at them and got into a conversation, while Leslie and Roarke surveyed the buffet. As usual, Leslie helped herself to some pineapple, and Roarke ascertained that there was plenty of food to go around before ushering his ward to the sidelines and lingering there for a while. They both watched the fire dancers while Leslie polished off her fruit.

Then out of nowhere, a rushed-looking man with dark curly hair and an urgent air about him came up to them. "Mr. Roarke, my name is Baines…Bill Baines," he said, "and I'm looking for Laura Miles. I was told that she'd come to Fantasy Island."

"Oh yes, yes, Mr. Baines," Roarke assured him. "She's sitting right over there." He gestured to where Laura knelt beside Captain van Hoortman, talking with Julie.

"Have a nice evening," they heard Julie say, and watched her rise and head for another part of the clearing where an island constable stood, casually watching the festivities. Without another word, Baines left Leslie and Roarke standing there and made a beeline for the spot Julie had vacated.

Leslie watched him pause beside Laura. "How rude," she said. "Who does he think he is, anyway?"

"He thinks he is Ms. Miles' boyfriend, that's who," Roarke replied whimsically, with a faint smile at her astonished look. They both returned their attention to the table when they heard Baines greet Laura, and saw her look around, only for her smile to die when she saw who was there. She was clearly less than happy to see the man, and Roarke grew concerned and drew Leslie a little closer to keep an eye on things, lest there be altercations.

"Would you like to be alone?" they heard Captain van Hoortman ask Laura.

"No," Laura began, flustered.

But Baines reached out, took her arm and pulled her to his side. "Yes, we do want to be alone," he said, his tone prepossessing and a bit arrogant.

"Let her go," van Hoortman demanded, stepping forward.

"It's all right," Laura broke in, trying to smooth things over. "I can handle it."

Baines advanced a step or two on him. "Stay outta this, fella. You're just a weekend romance, but I care about her. We have something personal to settle." He made a move at van Hoortman, but the captain wasted not a single second, grabbing Baines, hoisting him clear off the ground and hurling him past the table and into the bushes around the perimeter of the clearing. Gasps went up, and Leslie gawked, pineapple forgotten.

Van Hoortman, as if unsated, started after Baines, but Roarke's voice cut through the rising chatter. "Captain!" Van Hoortman turned, startled, and he quietly warned, "That's enough." Motioning for Leslie to remain, he approached the couple.

Laura was upset. "What is the matter with you?" she demanded. "I told you I could handle it!"

"I'm sorry, I couldn't," van Hoortman replied simply, and with that he walked away. Laura started after him, but Roarke stopped her.

"Let him go, Ms. Miles," he said gently.

"Mr. Roarke, why would he do that?" she asked. "Certainly not because he loves me!"

"Only he can answer that, Ms. Miles," Roarke said.

Behind Laura, Baines began painfully trying to pick himself up out of the bush; but Laura ignored him and went off in van Hoortman's wake. Leslie watched her go, then edged up to stand beside her guardian. "Now what?" she wondered timidly.

"Only time will tell," Roarke said, "and there is very little of it remaining now."

§ § § - January 3, 1982

It was early the following morning; breakfast had been history for less than an hour, and Julie was already off making rounds. Leslie, who sometimes lamented to herself that she was perpetually behind, was sorting yesterday's mail; the postal carrier usually arrived when she was in the middle of going through the previous day's batch, so that she often got the feeling her work was never done. But she rarely complained about it; she still found the business far too fascinating and enjoyable.

About to make a phone call, Roarke was abruptly interrupted when the inner-foyer door swung open and a radiant Captain van Hoortman strode inside. Without preamble he exclaimed, "Roarke! I'm free!"

"Oh?" Roarke prompted, rising from his chair.

"Absolutely! I've waited for this day for centuries," van Hoortman exulted.

Roarke leaned, uncharacteristically for him, against the ceiling support post behind and to the right of Leslie's chair, while she looked curiously on from her seated position. "You are very certain of this, are you, sir?"

"She loves me, Roarke! She told me so last night. She said she'll marry me."

"I see." Roarke's voice was devoid of inflection. "Have you told her who you are?"

"Not yet," van Hoortman admitted, still buoyant.

"I'm sorry, but you know that is required…"

"Oh, I will, I will, but Roarke—to be free, to be at peace, it's almost in my grasp!"

Roarke was silent for a moment, as though processing this. Then he remarked, "You say she loves you. Do you love her? That, too, is required."

Captain van Hoortman faced Roarke with a beatific smile. "Oh yes, that I do. Totally and completely."

"Then," Roarke said evenly, "you must ask her if she is willing to give up her life for the sake of your love."

For the first time the joy leaked out of the captain's expression. "No, Roarke, not again," he protested. "You've got to help me, please!"

"You know I can't," Roarke said, regretful but firm. "I don't know why these conditions exist for you, but they do. They cannot be altered."

Frustrated, van Hoortman paced the floor. "Then…I need time. I need some time to think it out." He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clenched into fists. Leslie felt sorry for him, but she knew better by now than to insert her two cents.

"You don't have that either," Roarke said, his voice hardening. "The man you hurt is in the hospital; the island police are looking for you right now."

That leached the hope out of van Hoortman's look. "Well, then, it's useless. I have no hope. I'm doomed for all eternity." Roarke was silent; and slowly the captain approached him, seeming to gather and resign himself. Finally he asked, "When do I have to leave?"

"Before the day is over," Roarke told him. "I will send Ms. Miles to you."

"I don't need any more hurt, Roarke," the captain muttered angrily.

Roarke refused to back down. "You made her love you, and she therefore has the right to know."

They stared at each other for a long moment; then, at last, van Hoortman nodded and quietly left the house. Only then did Roarke relax; pushing himself slowly off the support post, he retreated behind the desk again, his face thoughtful.

"So he didn't break the curse after all," Leslie dared venture.

He looked at her, moving only his eyes. "It would appear not, my child. However, it is early in the day. If he can convince Ms. Miles, then all is not lost."

Leslie regarded him, then observed, "I can't imagine giving up your life for the sake of love. I mean…you shouldn't _have_ to. Whoever put that condition on his curse is just plain sadistic. And even if you really did love someone till you couldn't think of anything else on earth, it'd still be pretty hard to actually have to decide to give up your life for them."

Roarke smiled at her. "Yes, Leslie, even for one very, very deeply in love, it's difficult. It's true, many people say they would die for the ones they love—but very few of them have to actually face such an eventuality. If forced to do so, it puts them to one of the greatest tests life has to offer up." He sat back, still regarding her. "You may not believe it now, my child, but you have the capacity to love that much. All you need is the right man, and I have no doubt that one day you'll find him. And then you'll understand better."

"I'm only sixteen," Leslie pointed out dryly. "I think I can wait a few more years to learn it firsthand."

Roarke laughed and patted her hand. "Quite understandable. Well, suppose you make as much progress as you can on those letters, and we'll try to complete a bit more of the paperwork this business entails while we have the chance. That, I'm sorry to note, is one of the few drawbacks of doing this." She grinned, and they settled back to work.

They had a little more than three hours in which to accomplish what they could, in between reports from Julie and a visit from Tattoo to see how the weekend's fantasies were progressing, before they had a visitor who stopped their progress altogether. It was Elaine Price, and she was decidedly angry. "I want to talk to you," she said heatedly, "and I want to talk right now. I'm not at all happy with the way you've been handling my fantasy so far, Mr. Roarke, and I think you need to do something about it."

"Why, what's wrong?" Roarke asked, coming out to meet her in front of his desk.

"All your Miss Harbinger did was give Ron this stupid pep talk about how perfect he was; and he went flying off on a pink cloud and blew it." She glared at him. "He blew his big chance, Mr. Roarke."

"Oh, come now, Mrs. Price, I'm sure things are not as dark as you paint them…"

"Dark? They're black! Mr. Stoneman wouldn't even listen to him."

"Hm," Roarke mused, looking oddly stymied. "Have you consulted Miss Harbinger?"

"Ron is doing that," she retorted. "He barely spoke to me and ran off for her to comfort him, as fast as his legs could carry him."

"Correct me if I am wrong, but do I detect just a little trace of jealousy, Mrs. Price?"

"Of _her?"_ At his nod, she whirled away, still defiant, but her veneer visibly and audibly cracking. "Well…why should I be jealous…of somebody absolutely stunningly gorgeous, who has my husband crawling around on his hands and knees after her as if she was some kind of…of…angel!" She threw her hands in the air and turned away, fighting tears.

Leslie saw Roarke carefully stifle a smile before he went to her and handed her a handkerchief to dry her tears. "I assure you, everything will work out," he said soothingly.

"Yeah?" Mrs. Price demanded tearfully. "For—for whom? This fantasy isn't at all the way I thought it would be. The only thing 'fantastic' so far is _her." _This time Roarke's amusement showed, but he waited her out, and she finally faced him and made her appeal. "Oh look, Mr. Roarke, I know how I must sound…but all I care about is my husband and his dream for those kids. Well…I-I've seen things you wouldn't believe; I've gone into places that would tear your heart out. He cares, Mr. Roarke—and he deserves help from somebody." She said this as if expecting Roarke to provide that help.

Roarke assured her, "You can give him that help, Mrs. Price, just as well as she can."

"Me?" she said skeptically.

"Yes, you can. Go to him now. Tell him you love him. Tell him to try again."

The change in Elaine Price was amazing; she lit up and even began to laugh a little. Leslie could only think that Roarke must have laid out some spell with his voice or some such thing, because she could hardly believe the turnaround. "I will." She headed for the door, stopped on the second step into the inner foyer and thanked him, then sheepishly gave him the handkerchief before hurrying out.

"What'd you do to her?" Leslie asked suspiciously.

Roarke, fingering the cloth and then folding it over in one hand, looked blankly at her. "Do? What do you mean?"

"She was all upset, crying, mad about Miss Harbinger…and then you say, go see your husband and say _I love you, let's try it one more time._ And _boom,_ she's happy as a clam and all excited. Come on, Mr. Roarke, nobody changes moods that drastically. So what'd you do to her? I want to know, in case I ever need it sometime."

Roarke laughed heartily. "All I did, my dear Leslie, was instill her with reassurance and confidence. As for you, I'll place my confidence in your handling of that mail. Let's see how much more we can get done before lunch." Leslie let the subject fall, but she still didn't quite believe it; and she could see that Roarke knew it, but neither of them brought it up again. She supposed she was going to find out that he was right again, as always, and she might as well give in before she embarrassed herself.

‡ ‡ ‡

Around mid-afternoon Julie stopped by the island hospital to check on Bill Baines' condition, and accompanied a nurse who wheeled him out to a small porch on the western end of the building. The nurse parked his wheelchair in a shady spot and left, and she was about to depart when a car pulled up and Laura Miles got out, rushing onto the porch. Julie smiled at her and said, "He'll be all right."

Looking relieved, Laura went over to Baines and gently brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. Slowly he opened his eyes as Julie watched from a short distance, and when he saw her, he smiled. "Hi."

"Hi," she replied warmly.

Baines looked rueful. "Your friend is as strong as a bull," he commented. They saw Laura's shoulders move slightly with amusement before his face grew serious. "Laura, I always thought we could make it together. I felt I was right for you." He paused, then smiled self-deprecatingly. "I guess that's what makes horse races. Differences of opinion, I mean. We could've had a good life. Not very exciting, maybe, but it's what I wanted."

Laura leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said, generous. "If you really think that guy's right for you, that's good enough for me."

She reached out and smoothed his hair. "Thanks, Bill." She turned from him then and came back to Julie, face hopeful. "Where's the captain?"

Julie's expression collapsed. "Mr. Roarke and Leslie are saying goodbye to him at the lagoon." Laura began to turn away, but Julie stopped her. "Miss Miles? I think it's too late."

"I've got to see him," Laura informed her with a grim urgency. She didn't wait, but went directly to the waiting rover and got in. Julie watched, her eyes wide, feeling deeply troubled. _Please, let her make it in time,_ she thought, _even if that driver has to break land-speed records getting her there!_


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § - January 3, 1982

"Goodbye, my friend," Captain van Hoortman said, reaching out to shake Roarke's hand. "I'll not come this way again."

"Goodbye, Captain," Roarke said quietly.

Just then there was a cry from behind them. "Wait!" They all turned to see Laura Miles fairly flying down the path from the road above. "I'm going with you."

"No!" van Hoortman exclaimed. "I'll not let you sacrifice your life for me."

"But don't you see?" Laura protested. "Without you I'll _have_ no life."

The captain appealed to his host. "Roarke, I don't want her to die. Talk some sense to her, please."

Roarke regarded them before remarking, "Perhaps it's time I spoke sense to both of you. There is no need for her to die."

Leslie shot him an incredulous look that was voiced in Van Hoortman's retort. "But the curse stipulates that she has to die in order to share my love."

"I beg to differ with you, Captain. The curse stipulates that a woman must be willing to die as a measure of her love. Don't you see? _Willing to_ are the key words."

Van Hoortman and Laura stared at him; then she looked up and said firmly, "And I am totally willing."

The captain glanced at her in wonder, then looked back at Roarke. "So she doesn't have to die…?" Roarke shook his head, winking at Leslie, who shut her open mouth with an audible snap that made him grin.

Van Hoortman turned to Laura. "I've sailed the storm-tossed seas for over three hundred years, searching for you."

"Yes, my darling," she said, smiling. "And now I am here—forever."

They kissed, just as Julie joined them and lit up at what she saw. The couple pulled apart, and van Hoortman reached out, beaming, to shake Roarke's hand again. "Once again, goodbye, old friend. Now there'll be no need for me to come this way again, will there?"

"No, no," Roarke agreed smilingly. "Goodbye, Captain, Mrs. Miles."

"Thanks, Mr. Roarke," Laura said, shaking hands in her turn and making sure to include Julie and Leslie in her farewell. They watched the two climb into the captain's skiff and row away, vanishing almost immediately into the same dark, rolling fog Leslie remembered from the previous morning.

"_Bon voyage,"_ Julie called softly after them.

"So what happens now?" Leslie queried.

Roarke smiled broadly. "The Flying Dutchman will now round Cape Horn at long last." That made both Leslie and Julie grin, and they all turned their attention back to the fog, which parted long enough for them to see van Hoortman boost Laura into the ship there and then climb aboard in his turn. They all waved, and as the fog closed in on the departing vessel, Roarke guided Julie and Leslie back to the car.

They reached the main house to the ringing of the telephone inside, and Julie sprinted across the room to grab it. "Hello? Oh yes, he's right here." She held out the receiver. "It's for you, Mr. Roarke. Mr. Price."

"Yes?" Roarke said, listened for a moment, then grinned widely. "Excellent! That's wonderful, congratulations! Yes, yes, of course, we will all be most happy to come. Thank you, and I am very happy for you."

"What happened?" Leslie asked. "Don't tell me…somehow Mr. and Mrs. Price got the money out of that old miser for the orphanage."

Roarke laughed. "Indeed they did, and they are having a celebration party in about one hour. We have been invited. Are you up for it?"

Julie and Leslie took one look at each other and both nodded hard. "Are you kidding? I love parties!" Julie burst out enthusiastically. "Bring it on!"

"Yeah, it sounds exciting," agreed Leslie, grinning.

Which was how they found themselves celebrating the imminent construction and opening of a new orphanage with all the amenities one could ask for. "You should have seen him, Mr. Roarke," Elaine Price was saying. "It was miraculous, the way Ron overwhelmed Mr. Stoneman."

"I couldn't believe it myself," Ron Price admitted and grinned. "But I couldn't have done it without Elaine's support, pep talks, and most of all, her love." Just as he said this, there was a soft, crystalline _ding!_ from somewhere over their heads; only Roarke seemed to hear, glancing above him, then meeting the Prices' happy gazes.

"Yes, of course," he said smoothly. "Love is the most important ingredient of all."

Leslie, standing nearby with a glass of white grape juice and half wishing it were the wine the adults were drinking, heard the sound as well and wondered what it meant. Julie was somewhere else, talking, or else she might have heard it too, she supposed. She shot Roarke a questioning look, but he simply smiled at her.

Price remarked then, "I think Elaine's idea of calling it the J.D. Stoneman Children's Farm is what really did it." Elaine beamed.

"Aw, honey," she said softly, and with that they lost themselves in a kiss just as the tiny crystalline chime sounded again. This time Leslie and Roarke looked at each other, and he began to edge away, with her determinedly sticking to his side.

"More champagne here," Roarke called, then said to the Prices, "Will you excuse me?"

"Of course, Mr. Roarke," mumbled Elaine before succumbing to her husband's kisses once more. Released, Roarke strode purposefully away from the party, Leslie behind him like his shadow. Julie might have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Harbinger before, she thought; now it was her turn!

In a clearing not very far away at all stood a beautiful, captivating young woman with cascades of burnished-gold curls, clad in a flowing white garment, a beatific little smile on her face. Leslie felt a strange sort of spell settle over her and stared in wonder while Roarke approached Miss Harbinger and smiled at her. "I was afraid you had already gone on to other work," he said.

"And not say goodbye to you? Oh no, Roarke," she assured him.

"You have performed well, as always," he said. "They have already forgotten you." Leslie could hardly believe that; who could possibly forget a presence like this one?

"Sometimes I wish I could stay, just for a little while," Miss Harbinger remarked wistfully. "It would be so nice to walk with you…talk like we used to…once upon a time, when the world was very young, and we were young with it." He was silent, and Leslie finally found the presence of mind to look at her guardian, whose features seemed as wistful as Miss Harbinger's voice had been, yet regretful, as if he hated to relinquish such an idyllic scenario. The woman raised her hand and kissed it. "Adieu, Roarke," she murmured, pressing her fingers to his lips. "Adieu."

Leslie watched in soundless wonder as she retreated several slow steps; then she was engulfed by coruscating rays of golden light, and in seconds she had vanished. Roarke drew in a slow, deep breath and seemed to visibly pull himself together. He raised his glass in a toast, took a sip, then flicked his fingers against the rim, producing the same crystalline ring they had heard moments earlier.

Leslie tried it with her own glass but got only a hollow-sounding clang. "Hey, that didn't work with mine," she complained.

Roarke gave a small start, as though surprised she was still there. "Perhaps you just didn't tap it properly," he teased.

"No, I think it's because I have to have grape juice instead of champagne," she shot back, and he laughed and led her back to the party.

§ § § - January 4, 1982

The Prices arrived first in their rover, both looking very excited. "Mr. and Mrs. Price, I understand the plans for your children's farm are all completed," Roarke said.

"Yes," Elaine said, "Mr. Stoneman already made the deal on the land. Isn't that wonderful?"

Julie looked amazed. "Wonderful? It's unbelievable!"

Ron Price grinned. "Ever since J.D. came out of that green steam room of his, he's been a dynamo!"

Elaine smiled. "How can we ever thank you, Mr. Roarke?"

"By you and your husband continuing in your good work, Mrs. Price, by bringing happiness, as I know you will, to all those children." And out of nowhere, there was another crystalline sound that made Roarke peer overhead for a moment.

Price frowned curiously. "Hey, I thought I heard a bell ring."

"That's odd, so did I," Julie murmured, and Leslie nodded, glancing knowingly at Roarke, who winked at her again.

"I didn't hear anything," Elaine said. Her husband seemed to take this as dismissal of the apparently phantom sound, and with that they made their farewells and departed.

"We really did hear a bell, didn't we," Julie said once they were gone.

"Possibly, Julie, possibly," Roarke replied. "A very special bell. Or it could have been merely the echo of an old and distant memory." He smiled then. "On the other hand, perhaps you only heard the bell around the neck of your friend over there." He gestured, and Julie lit up with delight, scuttling across the lane to the brown-and-white llama that stood partially behind a bush, waiting patiently.

"Priscilla," she said, nuzzling the animal's face. "So it was you all the time." Leslie grinned, knowing how crazy Julie was about animals. Julie had told her and her friends several stories already about the menagerie she'd had growing up; she had figured her parents were trying to make it up to her for not having passed their magical powers down to her, but whatever the reason, she had loved it.

"Perhaps, Julie," Roarke murmured, gazing into the sky. "Perhaps."

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"So that's what really happened," Julie said, almost accusingly. "I always thought it was just one of those funny things."

"I didn't," Leslie remarked, peering at her father oddly. "And I've always had a question that I never really had the nerve to ask, till now. Why did you let me remember when Julie was allowed to forget?"

"Because I knew, even then, that one day you would step into Julie's and Tattoo's shoes as my assistant," Roarke told her, smiling. "And I thought, at least just that once, that perhaps it was better to let you retain the memory…for learning purposes, of course."

"Of course," Leslie echoed him and cast Christian a look that made him grin. "An odd lesson, when we've never seen Miss Harbinger since then."

"I imagine one day she'll be back," Miranda observed, "when the need is great enough. Right, uncle?" Roarke nodded, his smile broadening, and she grinned back. "Well, so what else do you remember?"

"Other than Miss Harbinger?" Julie said dryly, to answering laughter. "Well, we could always try this one on for size…"

"Before you do," said Christian, "I need to ask a question. What was that about the green steam room? You didn't mention meeting Mr. Stoneman, so I can't imagine what that was supposed to mean."

"He had, at one time, a rare blood condition that affected his body's core temperature in a very unusual way," Roarke explained. "When he bought the mansion here, he discovered it included a greenhouse, which he promptly outfitted with steam jets designed to raise the temperature to levels that were comfortable for him. I visited him on one or two occasions and discovered that he was cold in 110-degree temperatures. He constantly complained that only tropical plants would grow in such conditions, as he hated them."

Christian was astonished. "How peculiar."

"Indeed," Roarke agreed. "He spent all his time in the greenhouse because it was the only place he was comfortable. Mr. Price was forced to conduct his initial request for funds in that greenhouse, and I have no doubt he was extremely overheated by the time Mr. Stoneman dismissed him."

"You said he had the condition 'at one time'," Rogan noted. "Was it cured, then?"

Roarke grinned. "Yes. Miss Harbinger paid him a little visit herself, without the Prices' knowledge, and completely changed his attitude. I've always suspected that she cured his condition as a little reward for his new magnanimity." They all laughed.

"Well, I'm glad that story has a happy ending, even for J.D. Stoneman," Christian said humorously. "All right, then, Julie, carry on with your next story."

§ § § - March 20, 1982

"Good morning, Mr. Roarke and Leslie," Julie said brightly, catching up with them at the walk in front of the house.

"Good morning, Julie," they chorused back. Roarke, as he often did, was still checking the weather, which looked fine this morning, with only flowing feathers of cirrus painting the deep blue, occasionally crisscrossed by jet trails. They waited for a moment or two; then Roarke seemed to notice something, looked around at Leslie and then at Julie, and asked, "Have you seen Tattoo?"

Julie's mouth popped wide for just a moment before she gathered herself. Looking oddly guilty, she said, "Oh…I'm glad you reminded me. You see, he said to tell you that he's having just a little trouble with the Cinderella fantasy that you assigned him to handle."

"Indeed?" Roarke said.

"Another one? We just had one…" Leslie began.

"They're quite popular, Leslie," her guardian said and turned to Julie. "What kind of trouble?"

"Uh…well, when the carriage turned back into a pumpkin…"

"Yes?" prodded Roarke when she hesitated.

Finally Julie came out with it. "He said the horses ran away and he can't find them."

"The horses ran away, hm?" Roarke said, his expression growing chilly. "When you see Tattoo, will you please tell him that one of his 'horses' may be found on the lawn in front of my office?" He gestured to the lawn, and Julie turned around while Leslie peered past her. A pure-white mouse was nosing inquisitively through the grass, clearly in no hurry to take itself elsewhere. Julie made an "awww…" expression and Leslie shook her head, sneaking a glance at her guardian just in time to see him glare out toward the lane. "Ran away," he muttered disgustedly and led the way to the rover that was pulling up. Leslie automatically followed him; Julie seemed momentarily torn between rescuing the mouse or coming along, before wisely choosing the latter and scuttling after them.

Roarke seemed to have dismissed the incident by the time they got to the plane dock, but he looked serious at sight of the first guests to emerge from the plane's hatch. He was still frowning slightly when Julie remarked in a dubious voice, "If they're on their honeymoon, the bride doesn't seem very happy about it."

"They are not honeymooners, Julie, far from it," Roarke said, his gaze returning to the somewhat older man, perhaps in his early fifties, in the three-piece suit and the dark-haired young woman, looking around thirty or so, who accompanied him. One hand continually fluttered beside her cheek, and she looked as if she were trying to shrink away from everyone's gaze. "The young lady, Laura Jensen, was recently paroled from prison. The gentleman accompanying her is her parole officer, Mr. Ron Martin."

"She was in prison?" Leslie asked, very surprised. "What for?"

"Driving the car during an armed robbery," Roarke replied.

Julie and Leslie looked at each other. "Wow," Julie said, wide-eyed. "What's her fantasy?"

"Not hers, Julie. Because Miss Jensen has been categorized as a habitual criminal, it's Mr. Martin's fantasy to erase that stigma and convert her into a respectable, law-abiding citizen." Roarke looked quite solemn.

"What'll happen if he doesn't succeed?" Julie queried.

"One more offense," Roarke said, "and Miss Jensen will go back to prison…probably for life." Again Julie and Leslie looked at each other; both wanted to ask questions, but Roarke's tone kept them quiet. After a few seconds a smiling, slender woman in a white dress, with dark-blonde hair pulled back into a partial ponytail, climbed out of the plane and started down the dock. "Miss Celeste Vallon, assistant curator at the Metropolitan Art Gallery. She's here to solve a riddle."

"A _riddle_ riddle?" Julie asked, her voice turning sly. "Or one of your house specialties?"

Roarke gave her a look that required Leslie to choke back a laugh. "A portrait by Paul Gauguin was recently discovered in the basement of a cottage in the south of France. About a month ago I purchased that portrait; it arrived today."

"What does all this have to do with the riddle?" Julie pressed him.

"It seems that Miss Vallon came across a print of that portrait, and she discovered that she looks exactly like the woman who posed for it."

"How strange," Julie commented. "What's her fantasy?"

"Her fantasy is to find out the identity of that woman. What Miss Vallon doesn't know is that…when she finds the answer, she will pass through a door through which there may be no retreat." That set Leslie to wondering if that meant the time-travel room was broken or something; but before she could make any remarks, Roarke's drink arrived and he toasted their newest guests.

Clearly Julie was wondering the same thing; she kept eyeing Roarke, but it wasn't till after the jeeps had borne their guests off to their bungalows and they themselves were on their way back to the main house that she asked. "Is something wrong with the time-travel mechanism?" she wanted to know.

"I was about to ask that myself," said Leslie.

Roarke only smiled. "You'll both find out in due time," he promised. Julie tried to get more information out of him, but he wouldn't budge; Leslie didn't bother, having been his ward long enough by now to know what he would and wouldn't say.

When they reached the main house, Tattoo was standing in the lawn, a mouse in each hand and his face a study in thwarted frustration. "Ah, there you are," Roarke hailed him as he stepped out of the car with the girls just behind. "Have you managed to collect all your missing horses?"

Tattoo favored him with a slit-eyed glare. "I've been running after those stupid mice all morning," he complained, "and there's still one missing." Leslie noticed another mouse cautiously poke its head out of one of Tattoo's suit-jacket pockets and sniff the air. "Did it really have to be a coach-and-four for that fantasy, boss?"

"Of course it did," Roarke said, surprised he even felt the need to ask. "It isn't as if we could hire a limousine and send Cinderella to the ball in that."

"Just once I'd like to modernize that fantasy," Tattoo grumbled. "Hey, Julie, can you help me out? Take these mice back to the pet shop for me?"

"Julie is busy—and so is Leslie," Roarke interceded when the Frenchman turned to the younger girl. "The mice are your responsibility, Tattoo, and therefore it's up to you to see that they are returned safely." He gave a nod as if to signal the subject was closed, and with that started up the steps and across the veranda. Julie followed, but Leslie lingered another moment or two.

"Hey, listen, if you still haven't found the fourth one by the time Mr. Roarke gets both fantasies going," she said, keeping her voice low and glancing at Roarke to be sure he couldn't overhear, "come find me and I'll take them back to the pet shop for you anyway, so you don't have to worry about them while you're looking for the other one."

A broad, grateful smile spread across Tattoo's features. "I really appreciate that, Leslie," he said. "Thanks…_mille merci_. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," she said agreeably and watched him start away along the side of the lane, scanning the grass and vegetation for a little white mouse. Then Roarke called her, and she hurried up onto the porch.

Inside the house the phone started to ring just as they entered the inner foyer, and Julie dashed in to pick it up. "It's for you, Mr. Roarke," she said, holding out the receiver.

Roarke held a brief conversation, then hung up. "Mr. Martin has asked us to come to the bungalow he and Miss Jensen are sharing," he explained.

"But their appointment's here," protested Julie. "All guests' appointments are here."

"Not quite all," Roarke corrected her. "In this case, I believe I can understand the reasons. Come along, ladies."


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § - March 20, 1982

The two-bedroom bungalow where Martin and Laura Jensen were staying had a small patio in the back, shaded by the trees that grew behind the little building. Martin was already sitting out there; he arose when he saw Julie and Leslie, nodded to them and shook hands with Roarke before the men sat down and Julie, at Roarke's nod, began to pour from a teapot. Leslie stood behind Roarke's chair, glancing into the bungalow now and then; Julie put voice to her question. "Isn't Laura going to join us?"

"She, uh…doesn't feel comfortable mixing with people she doesn't know very well," Martin explained as Julie finished pouring and took one of the two empty chairs that surrounded the white, frosted-glass-topped table.

"Oh," said Julie, trying to sound as if she understood, when she obviously didn't.

"As I understand it," Roarke said, "Miss Jensen's difficulties began when she was only thirteen, after her parents died in an apartment-building fire."

"Yes," Martin agreed, but stopped there when he saw Leslie's face. Roarke turned in his chair to regard her; Julie's face became a mask of sympathy. Martin asked, "Are you all right, young lady?"

She nodded quickly, but her throat had closed off all of a sudden. She stared openly into the bungalow this time, listening absently to Roarke explaining Leslie's own history and how she had come to the island.

"I see," Martin said.

"The fire," Roarke went on, "left her face terribly scarred for life."

"It also took away what she loved most in the world—her parents," Martin said.

"And then," Roarke took up the tale, "one foster home after another, a desperate child in search of love."

"Mr. Roarke, I don't believe Laura got one decent break in her whole life. And then growing up with that scar—you know how cruel children can be."

"Oh yes. And people who believe they are ugly sometimes choose to lead ugly lives. And then there are always the predators of our society, waiting to take advantage of their misfortune."

"You're right. Whenever Laura would apply for work, they'd take one look at her face and tell her that the job had already been filled."

"How humiliating," said Julie in disbelief.

"Don't waste your sympathy on me," snapped a cold voice, and they all looked around to see Laura Jensen in the patio doorway, hands on hips, face filled with defiance. Her right cheek was covered with bumpy scar tissue, mostly hidden by makeup and artful hairstyling, but still partially visible. "I don't need it or want it."

Leslie stepped back as Roarke arose; she found herself searching Laura Jensen's face for some sign that she might be willing to talk, but she saw nothing. Laura shot a glance over Roarke and then, hesitating maybe a second or so, on Leslie, before she shut down and sneered, "So what…who cares." She began to turn back inside.

"Laura," Martin began, getting up in his turn. "Laura, take it easy. We care, that's why we're here." He drew in a breath. "Mr. Roarke, there's something I didn't tell you: Laura didn't come here of her own free will. She came because I forced her to, as her parole officer. So if you have any spare miracles hanging around, please…make us believe."

Roarke spoke thoughtfully. "A wise man once said, miracles sometimes occur, but one has to work terribly hard for them." He trained a deliberately stern look on Laura and asked, "Just how hard are you willing to work for your miracle, Miss Jensen?"

Laura only looked at him; Martin spoke for her. "She'll cooperate, Mr. Roarke…won't you, Laura?"

He said this directly to her; Laura only looked at the ground sullenly, then lifted her gaze and peered at Martin, then at Roarke, and once again at Leslie before tossing her head and replying sarcastically, "Sure. Cooperation's my middle name. Everybody knows that. That's why I spent the last three years in prison." She started back into the bungalow, as if to dismiss them all; but she betrayed that careless mien by casting one last searching look back at them before disappearing altogether.

"I wonder how long she was standing there," Leslie murmured.

Roarke knew what she meant, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Long enough, my child," he assured her. "Long enough." He looked up at Martin. "We have another appointment, but I would like to see Miss Jensen within two hours."

Martin nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke. And uh…listen, could you have Leslie there with you? Sometimes…well, maybe she can find a little common ground for Laura to feel more secure with."

"I could try," Leslie said doubtfully. "But there's a lot of difference between me and her once you finish comparing how and when we lost our parents."

"You have to start somewhere," Julie said optimistically.

Roarke and Martin both smiled at that. "Quite so," Roarke agreed. "Please excuse us, Mr. Martin. Let's go, ladies."

Back at the main house, Celeste Vallon was already there waiting for them, standing near the Gauguin painting that sat on an easel in the middle of the study. She smiled as they walked in, shaking hands with them all, including Leslie. Julie eyed the painting in sheer amazement. "Wow…that painting really does look like you."

Celeste nodded agreement and said, "It's amazing, Mr. Roarke. Even though Gauguin painted it in 1896, I almost feel it's a picture of me." The silence began to stretch, making her finally tear her eyes from the portrait and turn to Roarke.

"Now that you have seen the portrait, are you still determined to go through with your fantasy?" he asked.

She sighed and smiled a little. "Oh yes, Mr. Roarke. I'm more determined than ever."

"Very well," he said, nodding. "But first, there is something you should know about the lady in the portrait. She was both Gauguin's model and his mistress. Her father disapproved of Mr. Gauguin, and she was engaged to a very jealous young officer, whom she didn't love." He came out from behind the desk, while Julie and Leslie stood in silence, both looking on intently. "Oh, and one more thing. Not only will you encounter personal danger, but there may also come a time in your fantasy when you will be faced with a most difficult decision…one that could very well alter destiny."

"You make it sound so ominous," Celeste said questioningly.

"With good reason, I assure you."

"I don't care." Celeste shook her head. "I accept the responsibility."

Roarke nodded once or twice and said quietly, "Very well. Then…please turn and face the portrait." He had lifted a hand as he spoke, and now drew it down in the direction of the painting, while Celeste's eyes followed as if hypnotized. Before either Julie or Leslie could grasp what was going to happen, the entire room filled with a soundless burst of multicolored lights, and when they blinked to clear away the glare, Celeste Vallon was gone.

"Where'd she go?" Julie asked.

"Back in time, to Tahiti in the final decade of the nineteenth century," Roarke told her. He frowned at the painting that still reposed in the middle of the room. "Let us hope that she can return when the time comes."

The phone rang and he picked it up. "Yes?" He frowned, then nodded slowly. "Very well. Thank you for letting me know." He hung up. "That was Mr. Martin. Apparently Miss Jensen has gone exploring around town, but hasn't returned, and it will soon be time for them to come here. Julie, please, do me a favor and see if you can find her."

"Right away," Julie said and promptly left. Though she searched all over the town square, it took her almost half an hour to spot the brunette, walking aimlessly alone, her hand raised protectively to her face as it always was. Relieved, Julie ran up to her. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you. Mr. Roarke would like to see you right away."

"Is that supposed to turn me on or something?" Laura muttered. Julie's smile faded, but she took Laura's elbow anyway and led her along down a path. Neither woman said a word, and when they got back to the main house they found Leslie sitting in her usual chair and Roarke peering at a ring through a jeweler's loup.

Julie cleared her throat, and Roarke looked up; Leslie put aside the letter she had been reading. Rising, Roarke said in greeting, "Ah, Miss Jensen. Please have a seat, won't you? Thank you, Julie." Julie nodded and promptly left.

Laura eyed Roarke without speaking; he paused, then queried, "I trust you are enjoying your stay with us?"

That finally got a response. "No, I'm not. Look, let me just be up front with you, okay?" At Roarke's nod, she went on with a bright, scornful smile: "I don't believe in Santa Claus, or the tooth fairy…" Her smile vanished and a hard look replaced it. "…or miracles."

"Are you saying you wish to withdraw from Mr. Martin's fantasy?" he asked calmly.

"That's right," Laura said coldly. "I want out."

That was too much for an indignant Leslie. "Wait a minute! Mr. Roarke has done things a lot harder than make scars go away. At least see what happens! What've you got to lose?" Laura didn't quite meet her eyes, but she did subside, her gaze dropping to the floor, but skepticism still radiating from her whole body.

Roarke glanced at his ward with a small smile; then he moved around the desk to confront Laura directly. Picking up a square container from the desk, he explained without further ado, "The lotion in this bottle is derived from a very rare plant, which grows only on Fantasy Island."

"And that's gonna take away my scars?" she retorted.

"Only the ones on your face, Miss Jensen," he said gravely. "The ones inside can be removed only by yourself."

Laura stood staring at him as though she still needed convincing; Leslie was moved to get up and face the woman head-on. "Please, at least try it."

Laura finally looked right at Leslie, and both she and Roarke recognized some minor softening in Laura's eyes. Roarke took advantage of the moment and unstoppered the jar, offering it to her. "Apply it to the scarred area of your face, Miss Jensen. Please."

Slowly Laura did as bidden, casting Roarke a glance filled with at least half a dozen emotions—hope, fear, the lingering skepticism, a deep-seated need, an old longing. She hesitantly smoothed the lotion over her scarred skin with a precision that told Leslie she knew exactly how much of her face the scar tissue covered; then she asked almost timidly, "So what's supposed to happen now?"

Roarke handed her a small mirror. "Look into the mirror, Miss Jensen, and see for yourself." He smiled kindly.

Still moving with slow uncertainty, Laura took the mirror and reluctantly faced her reflection, even more reluctantly moved her hand away from the scar. Roarke and Leslie watched almost as closely as she did, while the lotion did its magic in mere seconds and Laura found herself staring in wonder at an unmarred visage. She gasped, her eyes lighting and her face breaking into a wide smile. "I can't believe it!" she breathed.

Roarke and Leslie were smiling too. "Go show Mr. Martin what the true Laura Jensen looks like," he urged. "After all, it's his fantasy."

She took one last look in the mirror, then said firmly, "Yes. Yes, I will." Beaming, she sidled around Leslie, gazing at the grinning younger girl, then pausing. "Say, Leslie…I, uh…you want to come with me? We could talk."

"Sure," Leslie agreed, tossing her guardian a fast questioning look. He nodded, and she started after Laura, then paused. "I'll be right there." Laura nodded and left, and she sidled up to Roarke, frowning. "Mr. Roarke…you forgot to tell her that the potion lasts only twenty-four hours."

He smiled slightly. "Oh no, Leslie, I didn't forget. Some dreams are best fulfilled without knowing their limitations. Especially this one." Something in his dark eyes grew deeply worried, unnerving Leslie enough to decide not to pursue it.

"Okay," she murmured, a little doubtful but taking his word for it in the end. "Be back in a while."

"Don't feel any need to rush," he said, smiling again.

Leslie caught up with Laura beside the fountain; she was standing there gazing into the mirror with pure amazement on her face. Laura looked around as she heard Leslie come down the steps and grinned at her. "I just can't believe it."

"It's business as usual here," Leslie said with a deprecatory shrug, falling into step beside Laura. "I guess I've gotten used to it."

"You had to get used to it? How did you end up here?" Laura asked.

"My parents were killed in a house fire," Leslie said, watching Laura as she said this. "I was thirteen when it happened."

Laura stopped short, momentarily forgetting her new face. "Oh, my God." Something flitted across her features, then disappeared so fast Leslie couldn't name it. After a moment Laura leaned forward a little and squinted at her. "Truth?"

"Truth," said Leslie. "But in my case, it was no accident." She summarized the facts and events about the fire, then explained briefly about her mother's fantasy and how she had provided that Roarke would become Leslie's guardian.

"Huh," Laura mused, slowly moving forward again. "That's a shame. Well, at least you got out of the fire without any scars."

"I wasn't really even in the fire," Leslie said, "but that doesn't mean I don't have scars. I hate that man, Miss Jensen. I'll always hate him."

Laura let out a short laugh. "I bet. Does Mr. Roarke know that?"

"Yup." Leslie sauntered along beside her, affecting an _I don't care_ mien, but pretty certain Laura could see through it anyway. "I know you don't have that problem. You loved both your mom and your dad, right?…and they both loved you."

Laura nodded, mind partially in the past. "We were all so happy together. After they were gone, I was the loneliest kid on earth. But I didn't have Mr. Roarke to fall back on as a guardian. I just got shunted around the foster system. This scar—" Out of habit she lifted a hand to her face, then brightened a little as she remembered it was gone. "Well, anyway, it scared people. It looked a lot worse than it does…I mean, did. It took a long time to heal completely, but even with makeup on the thing spooked people. I couldn't get a decent break from anybody, so…"

Leslie nodded. "I can see where I could've had that fate too. How long did you spend crying, after the fire?"

"Couple of years," Laura said with a diffident shrug. "Then I made up my mind I wasn't going to let anyone see any more tears, and I stopped."

"I still cry," Leslie said baldly, throwing it out there just to see what kind of reaction it would get. "And not just inside. I mean, I do it in private, but sometimes I still have nightmares about the fire, and I usually wake up crying. And it was more than three years ago."

Laura stopped again and propped the hand holding the mirror against her hip, regarding Leslie with a touch of condescension that made the younger girl bristle. "Hey, honey, in my world, you gotta be tough. It's the only way to survive."

"Oh sure," Leslie shot back, stung. "And look where it got you."

As fast as she'd flared up, Laura deflated. She turned away and began to walk again, a little faster this time. "Yeah, okay," she said finally, "I'll give you points for that."

"I'm just saying, it's not like you're alone," Leslie said. "Look, I didn't cry either. That man forbade it. He said tears were, and I quote, 'a stupid female weakness'. You want to know something? I had to be taught how to cry all over again. And I'm glad Mr. Roarke did it. Sometimes crying's the only way to get it all out. I know—" She held up a hand when Laura threw a disgusted expression over her shoulder and opened her mouth to comment. "I know what you're about to say. It doesn't solve anything. No, not in itself it doesn't, but I realized that once I get over a crying jag, I can think better and I'm not as upset, so I don't go in circles coming up with useless ideas."

Laura didn't respond to that, and Leslie shrugged to herself and stopped in the path. "Well, just keep going and you'll find your bungalow. I have to go back."

"Hey, Leslie…" She didn't look back, but waited, and after a moment Laura said softly, "Tell Mr. Roarke thanks. And thanks for pushing me into using that lotion."

"You're welcome," Leslie replied over her own shoulder and smiled a little. "See you later. Tell Mr. Martin I said hi." Laura nodded, and Leslie headed back in the direction of the main house, trying not to feel as if she had just demoted herself to the status of a first-grader in the woman's eyes. _She's had a hard life, that's all,_ she reminded herself. _Don't let it get to you so much. She deals with her stuff her way, you deal with your stuff your way, and that's all there is to it._ At any rate, it beat all heck out of turning to crime. She shook her head to herself and broke into a trot, already hungry for lunch.

‡ ‡ ‡

Julie had gone home for the evening, and Roarke had left Leslie and Tattoo puzzling over some geometry homework she had. He affected a quick change of clothing and stepped into the hallway of a rather grand French-style mansion; the somewhat cloying heat told him he was in Tahiti, exactly as planned. No one else was in sight, but there was a loaded silver tray sitting on a small table beside a closed door. He knocked, heard a feminine "Come in" from inside, and picked up the tray before letting himself quietly in.

The woman at the small dressing table barely looked up. "Oh, just put it over there," she said, and Roarke did so, placing the tray on another table near the massive bed before turning to regard her. She seemed absorbed, so he spoke.

"Well, Miss Vallon, has your fantasy been progressing satisfactorily?"

Startled, she got up and breathed, "Mr. Roarke!"

"Yes. Tell me, have you discovered the identity of the woman in the portrait?"

"Well…" Celeste Vallon shook her head once or twice, her face filled with confusion and some disbelief. "I don't know how it's possible, but I think I am!"

"Really?" said Roarke with interest. "Since you've traced your family tree back to the province in France where the portrait was discovered, isn't it just possible that you might closely resemble a member of your family who lived generations ago?"

"Well…I suppose that's the only explanation there could be," Celeste admitted.

"Yes," he agreed, waiting.

She paused behind an ornate loveseat and looked up at him with a new light in her eyes. "Now I know what you meant, when you said I could alter destiny. Paul has to finish the portrait, or it will never exist. That's it, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Roarke said. "And if that happens, neither will any of his other paintings that followed."

Alarmed, Celeste came out from behind the loveseat and stared pleadingly at him. "But…but what about André? He's like ice!" She was referring to the man whom Gauguin's Celeste's father had engaged her to. "If he finds out the truth, Mr. Roarke, he'll kill Paul. What should I do?" This last, she only whispered.

"That is the decision I said might confront you, remember?" he reminded her gently. "A decision you must make out of your own heart and mind, Miss Vallon."

"Oh…oh dear…" Distraught, she sank into the nearest chair. "It was all so wonderful at first. Now…" There was a long pause while she eyed the ceiling, and he took the opportunity to ease back into the time corridor, so silently she didn't notice he was gone till she found herself alone in the room. Her voice echoed along the temporal tunnel: "Mr. Roarke?…"

He smiled a little and let himself into the study. He hadn't been gone very long; Leslie and Tattoo were still squinting in perplexity at her homework. "Haven't you deciphered that yet, my friend?" he asked in surprise.

Tattoo scowled. "I was never any good at this stuff in school. Once I got past fourth-grade multiplication and division, everything else might as well have been in Russian for all the sense it made to me. And I think Leslie's having the same problem."

"No, no, wait—I see it," Leslie burst out suddenly. "That's an _isosceles_ triangle, not a regular one!" She scribbled something on her paper. Tattoo stared at her in disgruntlement, and Roarke laughed softly.

"I thought you would have finished that at school yesterday," he said.

She looked up and scrunched her features into a gargoyle's mask of intense dislike. "I finished everything else, but this stuff is almost impenetrable. I'm so glad I finish my math requirements at the end of this semester. I can add, subtract, multiply and divide, and I know enough fractions to deal with measuring ingredients for recipes and enough decimals to deal with money in a whole load of different countries. But I have absolutely no clue what I'd do with all the rest of this arcane stuff. It's not like I'm going to become an astrophysicist or anything like that."

"Perhaps not," Roarke said, smiling. "But you do need to at least keep this information handy in your immediate memory long enough to pass the end-of-year examinations in two months, I'm afraid, so you must bend to necessity a little longer."

"Yeah, I guess," she muttered grudgingly, blowing her bangs away from her eyes. "At least there's only one more question to go. Tattoo—"

But Tattoo backed off, hands raised. "No thanks, I think you better ask the boss. I'm going home to do something simple…like dig for diamonds." With that, he left, leaving Leslie staring after him and Roarke chuckling heartily.

"So how's Miss Vallon doing?" she asked, clearly looking for a distraction.

"She's troubled," Roarke admitted, sitting at the desk. "She has reached that point at which she must make a decision that would affect Paul Gauguin's very career. She's facing an irate father and a ruthless fiancé, and I am afraid she is under a good bit of pressure; but I have no doubt she will do what is best for all involved."

She nodded, absorbing this, and then frowned. "I talked to Michiko today. She said she heard her father tell her mother at supper this evening that some really nasty guy with a gigantic criminal record is on the island. She said he was feeling trapped because the police can't do anything to him as long as he obeys island law."

"Marty Downs," Roarke said, his voice low and grim.

"You know?" she exclaimed, even as she found herself thinking she really shouldn't be surprised that he did.

Roarke nodded. "News travels quickly in any circle, including the criminal element. Marty Downs is a career crook who has been responsible for a great many of the crimes for which Miss Jensen has been imprisoned." He raised his head from the date book and gazed unseeingly across the room. "He is on the island to try to tempt Miss Jensen back into the life she fell into after her parents' deaths. It will be a great measure of her inner strength as to whether she can resist him."


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § - March 21, 1982

Shortly after breakfast, when Roarke had sent Julie and Leslie to make some rounds, he found himself welcoming Ron Martin into the foyer. Martin was disturbed and made no secret of it. "I really do need to talk to you about something. It's…about Laura. Last evening, she seemed to think that there was more to our outing than there really was." Roarke only looked quizzically at him, and he floundered slightly, trying to elaborate using euphemisms. "I mean…she must be reading more into what's between us than I thought…"

"Are you saying she has begun to see you in a romantic light?" Roarke asked.

"Yes," Martin said, nodding vigorously. "We have a professional relationship, Mr. Roarke. I can't allow anything else to enter into it. I have to maintain a certain distance; I have to do what's really best for her, no matter what she might want."

Roarke guided him through the study. "Think about it, Mr. Martin: perhaps this was inevitable. After all, it is your fantasy which has provided Miss Jensen with the equivalent of a miracle. Her outlook on life has completely changed. She has been freed from the influence of Marty Downs—made to feel human, beautiful, desirable."

Impatiently Martin agreed, "Yes, she is all that! But don't you see, I can't take advantage of her just because she feels some sort of gratitude!"

Roarke sat down in a chair on the terrace. "Oh, Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin…how little you truly understand! Don't you see? Miss Jensen has placed years of rejection behind her, opened herself to a new life…to love—to the one person she has any reason to love."

Martin shook his head disbelievingly and paced away. "Love, Mr. Roarke?"

"Yes—and isn't about time to admit to yourself that you have been, and are, in love with Laura Jensen?"

Martin turned to gape at him. "What're you saying? That I've done this, had this fantasy, just to—"

Roarke nodded when he left the sentence hanging there. "Even parole officers are human, Mr. Martin," he said with a smile.

"You do know how to open windows inside a man, don't you," Martin murmured, peering at Roarke as if, should he stare hard enough, he might be able to see through him.

Roarke arose from the chair. "If I have," he said gently, "look through them, Mr. Martin. See the truth."

Martin held out only another few seconds before his expression softened. "You're right, of course. I never really saw that scar. I always saw her the way she is, now, that inner beauty showing through. That is love…isn't it?"

"Indeed. Go tell her how you feel, Mr. Martin," Roarke urged. "Go tell her, now."

They looked at each other before Martin began to nod, smiling a little wider with every second. Finally he turned and left the terrace, headed down the path; Roarke watched him go for a moment. It was up to Ron Martin now, to let Laura Jensen know that she had his love, that she would never need to submit to Marty Downs again.

Then he checked his watch; it wouldn't be too long now, if his instincts were right, before his other guest returned. He moved quietly into the study just as Leslie and Julie walked in, and they all stopped for a second before laughing. "Is everything all right?" he asked, moving the easel with the Gauguin painting to a position near the steps.

"Running like clockwork," Julie said. "Wow, that's a really nice painting."

"A Gauguin," Roarke said, making her eyes widen. "If you two would kindly step back here near the desk, you'll be out of the way when the time arrives."

"That's okay, I still have that last stupid geometry question to answer," Leslie said with a put-upon sigh. Julie eyed her in surprise.

"You do? Maybe I can help," she offered, and followed Leslie to where the textbook and spiral notebook still sat on the corner of Roarke's desk where she so often worked. Leslie took her seat and found the assignment, and Julie leaned over to look at it; Roarke smiled, then glanced at the clock once more and waited patiently, half his attention on the girls' quiet discussion.

"Wow, that's it, I got it!" Leslie exclaimed after a few minutes. "Thanks, Julie, you've just taken a load off my mind. At least till the next homework I have in geometry."

Julie grinned. "Hey, anytime I can help, just give me a call."

At that exact moment there was a burst of multicolored light that made both of them shield their eyes, and when it was gone, there stood Celeste Vallon, blinking slowly and looking a little dazed. Her eyes fastened on Roarke, who told her, "It's over, Miss Vallon; your fantasy has ended."

Celeste's eyes widened with anguish, and she approached him, pleading, "Oh, please, Mr. Roarke, I can't let it end like this. I don't even know what happened to him!"

"You do know he loved you very much," Roarke said.

She nodded, in small, rapid, jerky motions. "And I loved him. But…to leave him like this, so abruptly…" Her voice cracked; Julie and Leslie looked at each other worriedly, for she sounded on the verge of tears. "It seems so cold. Couldn't I just touch him one more time?" she begged.

"He won't remember how you left, Miss Vallon," Roarke told her, not without sympathy. "However…would it be enough to see what happened, what you meant to him?"

Hope filled her features. "Oh yes, please."

"Very well. But please remember this—neither Paul nor anyone else will be able to see us, or know we are there, do you understand?" She nodded rapidly again. "All right. Will you come this way, please?"

Julie and Leslie watched him escort Celeste Vallon onto the terrace, and exchanged looks again. "What happened?" Julie wondered.

"Mr. Roarke said she'd have to make a decision," Leslie mused. "Something about her being Paul Gauguin's mistress—well, the woman in the painting was, anyway. And he did mention destiny right before he sent her back. She must have done something that would let history go on as it was supposed to."

"Must have been some sacrifice, judging from her crying," Julie observed. They heard voices from the terrace, and both poked their heads cautiously around the jamb of the French shutters, staring transfixed at the ghostly scene before them.

"Where is she?" The voice came from a man in a blue uniform with red trim; he was coldly handsome, with a sandy-blonde mustache and a commanding demeanor.

The man standing several yards away from him, holding a small sheet of paper, looked up, moving only his eyes. He was clad in a roomy white shirt open partway down his chest, his tan pants held up by brown suspenders. His dark hair was just starting to go gray, while his mustache sported lighter brown hair. This, they realized, was Paul Gauguin. He said not a word; his face seemed bereft. Leslie realized he was holding a letter.

The uniformed man reached for something at his side and suddenly lifted a pistol out of its holster, pointing it at the artist. He crossed the hut toward Gauguin, caught sight of the painting of Celeste, and instantly cocked the pistol, aiming. "The evidence is in your own paint," he sneered. "You are a dead man."

At that moment an elegantly dressed older man stopped short in the doorway; he was kitted out in soft gray and even had a top hat. "André!" he snapped. Both Gauguin and the uniform turned to stare at him.

"You won't stop me now, sir. Look for yourself." André indicated the painting. "I wanted to find them together. I wanted her to see him die."

"That painting proves only that he painted her likeness," the older man—apparently the first Celeste's father—argued. "Use your senses, man!"

André hesitated only long enough to go to the doorway to the back room, which looked to be a sleeping area, before pointing the gun at the artist again. "Are you a liar as well as an adulterer? Was Celeste here or not?"

Gauguin made a halfhearted gesture with the letter in his hand; his voice was soft and listless. "She was here."

"André!" the older man growled again. "Put down that gun!"

André looked outraged. "Along with my honor?" he demanded, moving away from the artist and toward Celeste's father, as if to emphasize his point.

"Honor is a hollow mockery when law and authority are flouted. Now I tell you, put down that gun!"

André half lowered the pistol, glaring at Gauguin, who simply stared lifelessly back at him. Julie and Leslie were both holding their breath; Celeste kept twitching where she stood, as if battling an impulse to get involved. Roarke just watched. All of a sudden André hoisted the gun and made to shoot Gauguin, but just as swiftly, the older man whipped out a riding crop and whacked André's arm hard with it. Shocked, André dropped the gun and held his arm close to his side, pain filling his eyes. Celeste gasped.

Glaring, André finally turned and left the hut, cradling his arm; Gauguin merely gazed on, without moving or changing expression. Celeste's father moved deeper into the hut, snatched the letter from the artist's hand and began to read it aloud to himself. Leslie, Julie and Roarke could all see Celeste's lips forming the words along with him.

_Dearest Paul, by the time you read this, I'll be on my way to France. I must find a life of my own, apart from all this. I know you'll continue with your paintings, and one day the world will recognize your genius. History will never record that I was ever on this island, and André will not be dishonored. Tell my father that I love him. Dear, gentle Paul…I shall always cherish the memories of the fragment of borrowed time that we spent together. Celeste._

"It seems I've lost a daughter," Celeste's father murmured.

"And I my happiness," Gauguin said softly. As they watched, he slowly lifted the portrait of Celeste from its easel and presented it to her father. "Take the painting, sir. I'm sure she would want you to. I will carry her image with me always…here." He touched his heart. Without a word, the older man turned and shuffled out of the hut, painting in hand.

Celeste hunched her shoulders and audibly swallowed back a sob; Roarke glanced at her, then stepped back, and the scene faded away. "Go and rest now, Miss Vallon," he suggested softly. "Take the time to recover yourself."

Celeste nodded, a few more of those short jerky motions, and then fled the terrace. Only then did Roarke address the two unseen watchers. "Well, Julie and Leslie, has your collective curiosity been satisfied?"

Julie snorted and Leslie rolled her eyes; he turned around then and grinned at them. "Surely you didn't truly think I had no idea you were watching!"

"You can't blame us for wondering what the ending was gonna be," Leslie said.

"And you can't blame two females for hoping for a romantic ending," Julie added, crossing her arms over her chest. "Which it was. Worthy of Heathcliff and Cathy."

"I am gratified by your approval," returned Roarke, with just a hint of lighthearted sarcasm, coming back into the study. "Perhaps, now that you've seen what you apparently wished to see, you'll both do me a favor and help me with another situation."

"You got it!" Leslie and Julie chorused. "What is it?" The latter came from Julie.

Roarke smiled. "Just come with me, quickly. We have little time to waste, and we must bring a constable or two with us." He made a quick call to the police station, and then drove Julie and Leslie to the side lane near town where most of the bungalows were clustered. Faintly they could hear voices through the open windows of the one where Ron Martin and Laura Jensen were staying; one of the constables frowned.

"That's Marty Downs," he said. "Small-time crook, but with a long, long trail behind him. That's one guy whose imprisonment people will cheer."

Then they heard a low, furious growl: "That's it, we're goin' and you're goin' with me. Come on!" The protesting cries of a woman half drowned out his tirade, and Roarke chose that moment to spring forward and throw open the bungalow door. Right behind him were Julie, Leslie and the two constables.

"Stop!" Roarke ordered sharply, and Downs froze in the dining alcove, still grasping a struggling Laura Jensen by the hair. "You're not taking Miss Jensen anywhere—not anymore. Considering a number of warrants demanding your arrest, I predict for you an exceedingly busy, but very confined future, Mr. Downs." Downs stared at him, oddly subdued, as if he'd heard enough rumors about Roarke to think twice about trying anything. Laura rubbed her arms as if she were cold. "Take him," Roarke said, gesturing, and the constables moved inside and made swift work of apprehending Marty Downs.

Once they'd taken him out, Laura immediately went to Ron Martin, who had been tied into a chair, and loosened his bonds; he got up, they smiled at each other, and then embraced and kissed. Julie smiled dreamily; then it faded and she sidled closer to Roarke to whisper worriedly, "Mr. Roarke…the scar—it's come back!" Leslie peered at Laura, but from this distance she couldn't see well, and wondered where Julie got her sharp eyesight.

"Has it, Julie?" Roarke murmured, catching her astonished expression. He shook his head slightly. "In any case, it doesn't matter. Mr. Martin doesn't see it…and he never will." And with that, he smiled at the two girls and ushered them out the door.

§ § § - March 22, 1982

Julie and Leslie had been arguing ever since the moment of Marty Downs' arrest over whether Laura Jensen's scar had really come back or not; Leslie was too proud to admit that her eyesight might be at fault, but she believed she honestly hadn't seen anything. Roarke had let them haggle it out, but was forced finally to shush them on the way to the plane dock Monday morning. "It will all be settled when Mr. Martin and Miss Jensen bid us goodbye," he informed them, "so if you will, cease your bickering."

As luck would have it, the girls' misery was prolonged because it was Celeste Vallon who arrived in the first car. "Miss Vallon," Roarke greeted her.

She looked a bit sheepish. "I know this may sound like a foolish question, but I have to ask it." At Roarke's prompting nod, she asked, "Was I really the woman in that portrait?"

"What do you think?" countered Roarke, smiling.

"I don't know," Celeste admitted with good-natured frustration.

Roarke chuckled soundlessly, then signaled at a nearby native, who brought him a wrapped package. "Thank you. A very special present, Miss Vallon," he said, "for you."

"What is it?" she asked.

Julie beamed. "A portrait of a very beautiful woman."

"The painting?" Celeste gasped, accepting the package. "Oh, Mr. Roarke…I don't know what to say."

He smiled again. "You don't have to say anything. After all, I am only giving you something that is rightfully yours." Amid Celeste's effusive thanks, they all shook hands, and she headed for the plane with the wrapped painting under one arm, her step light.

At last the second rover drew up and Martin and Laura alighted; Leslie and Julie, both trying to be unobtrusive, peered carefully at Laura's right cheek, which was almost completely hidden under her hair again, to their frustration. Martin, meantime, addressed their host with, "Mr. Roarke, we both want to thank you very much."

"For a lot of things," Laura agreed softly. "Learning to love, trust…and learning to like myself."

"Ah yes," Roarke said, "the ability to assess one's own value. Not to oversell, no…but also not to _under_sell one's own potential for good, for beauty, and for love."

"I'll remember that always, Mr. Roarke," Laura promised, and they again shook hands and bid farewells. Laura paused a moment in front of Leslie. "And listen, thanks for sharing with me the other morning, too."

"That's what friends are for," Leslie said, and Laura grinned at her before making her way across the clearing at Martin's side.

Once they were out of earshot, Julie finally voiced hers and Leslie's questions. "Mr. Roarke…the way she was wearing her hair, I couldn't tell. Does she still have the scar?"

"I still think maybe it's just the way she's used to wearing her hair, and that scar's gone for good," Leslie persisted, stubborn to the very end.

Amused, Roarke retorted, "All you ever need to know, my dear young ladies, is that all beauty exists—where?"

"In the eye of the beholder?" Leslie supplied.

"Precisely," he said, and with that returned Martin's and Laura's final waves.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

Roarke was even more amused now, because that same old debate had sprung up again between Julie and Leslie, and Christian, Rogan, Miranda and Josh had all gotten caught up in it. Rory stared, mouth hanging open in pure astonishment, traces of confusion on his wide-eyed features. "But that didn't answer the question, lass," Rogan was protesting. "How can ye possibly be so sure?"

"Because uncle said the lotion was good for only twenty-four hours!" Julie insisted.

"Now wait a moment…Mr. Roarke didn't actually say that," Christian pointed out in a reasonable tone. "The way you three told the story, Julie, it was Leslie who mentioned it, by saying he hadn't told her about the 24-hour limit. He himself never said a thing. So I think there stands a good chance that the lotion could have been permanent."

"That makes sense to me," Miranda said, and Christian smiled at her.

"I think so too," Leslie said. "I can remember seeing some of the scar peeking out from under her hair, before Father had her apply the potion. When she and Mr. Martin left that Monday morning, there wasn't even a tiny bit of it showing, so I think that means it was gone. She was just used to wearing her hair like that, and it would've taken her some time to get used to it enough to break the habit."

"It was still a twenty-four-hour spell," Julie argued. "What was so special about Laura Jensen that she should get to have it last for good? I'm telling you, she was hiding the scar!"

"But she had her new confidence," Leslie retorted, "remember? And by the way, the whole time she and Mr. Martin were standing there saying goodbye to us, she didn't once reach up to touch that side of her face. Not once."

"Maybe she just didn't feel like calling attention to it," contributed Josh.

Roarke finally raised his hands and put a stop to it. "Is this really necessary?" he asked, half laughing. "This fantasy is twenty-four years history, and here you are debating it as if it were two sides of a sensitive political issue."

"Then why don't you break the standoff, Mr. Roarke?" Christian inquired pointedly, which suggestion was greeted with a loud chorus of agreement.

"Because the entire issue should be moot," Roarke told the group at large. "What truly matters the most—the apparent eradication of Laura Jensen's scar, or the valuable lesson she learned and the self-confidence she gained?"

That silenced everyone in the room, till Rory piped up, "I don't get it," and made everyone start to laugh. The boy smirked and climbed into one of the leather chairs in front of Roarke's desk. "That was pretty exciting, 'specially the way you busted in there and put the cuffs on that old crook, Uncle Roarke. But what's the next one?"

"Wasn't that the weekend you played game-show host, uncle?" Julie asked, and Leslie sat up with sudden remembrance.

"Yeah, that's right…and I was so thrilled that you let me help you out," she said with a grin. "It was sort of a weird fantasy, but it was fun, and I collected a couple more signatures in my autograph book that weekend too. Christian, my love, you might not recognize these names, but I'm sure Josh will at least…"


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § - April 10, 1982

"Who is that lady, Mr. Roarke?" Julie asked when a lovely, poised woman who appeared to be in her early forties stepped onto the dock, beaming.

"She is listed on the flight manifest as Ms. Jane Doe; but her real name is Ms. Ellen Layton," Roarke told her.

Julie and Leslie looked at each other blankly. "I don't understand," Julie said.

"Ms. Layton was sent to us by a friend of mine," Roarke explained. "It seems she's a victim of amnesia, caused by striking her head when she fell off a horse."

"Amnesia!" Leslie echoed. "That's the kind of thing you read about in lurid books, and you never expect it to happen to real people."

"Yeah, that's terrible!" Julie exclaimed.

"Yes," Roarke said, "she can remember absolutely nothing about her previous life. Her problem is a conflict in personalities between the woman she once was and the woman she wants to be."

Julie, oozing pity and sympathy, gazed anxiously at Ellen Layton as the woman stepped onto solid ground, gazing around with delight. "What is her fantasy?"

"Her fantasy is to have her memory restored," Roarke said, at the same time Leslie put in, "She wants her memory back, of course!" Julie shrugged, and Roarke smiled a little. "She wants to become again the person she was before the accident. Unfortunately, Ms. Layton may not like the person she used to be at all."

On that note, he returned his attention to the dock, where they could now see two fiftyish men stepping out of the hatch. "Who're those men, Mr. Roarke?" Julie asked.

"Gosh, have you been living under a rock?" Leslie exclaimed in amazement. "I know them. My sisters and Mom and I used to spend mornings on summer vacations watching them on TV all the time."

"Indeed," Roarke said. "I'm surprised at you, Julie, that you don't recognize the two most famous game-show hosts in the world!"

"The guy on the right is Bob Barclay, from _The Great Game,"_ Leslie said excitedly.

That seemed to jump-start Julie's memory. "And Ron Ellison, from _I Bet a Million_! Of course!" she said brightly.

Roarke nodded. "Once the best of friends, when they were young and struggling for recognition, they've become bitter rivals. They're both in love with the same woman, and jealous of each other's success. You see, Mr. Barclay and Mr. Ellison's joint fantasy is to be contestants on the ultimate game show."

"_Ultimate,_ Mr. Roarke?" Julie repeated doubtfully. "That sounds ominous."

"You may well be right. You see, these are two men who for years have watched contestants have all the thrills and excitement, while they as hosts have just stood by."

"And now they want to test their own skill and brains," Leslie prompted.

"Precisely—but in a game where ultimately, the winner takes all."

"And the loser…?" Julie began, unsure she wanted to hear the answer.

Roarke's smile vanished; his dark eyes were unreadable. "The loser faces death itself." So saying, he accepted his glass and raised it in toast; Leslie reflected as she watched their new guests return it that she was going to have to jump on Barclay and Ellison for their autographs as soon as she could, just in case something went awry and one of them ended up not leaving the island…

‡ ‡ ‡

As it happened, Ellen Layton was listed first on Roarke's morning appointment schedule, and Leslie had to tuck her excitement away for the time being while she accompanied Roarke and Julie to Ellen's bungalow. The lady welcomed them warmly in and immediately gestured to the comfortable living-room furniture arranged invitingly around the main room. "Would you like to sit down?"

"No, thank you," Roarke said, giving Leslie some hope that they might not be staying very long. She was a little ashamed of herself for being in such a hurry, but the truth was that it was the game-show fantasy that really caught her interest. "I assume you are ready for your fantasy to begin."

"Yes, I am," the woman said earnestly, "but first, I have to know who and what I am! I don't even know my name."

That surprised both Leslie and Julie, but the older girl recovered first and offered a little shyly, "Your name is Ellen Layton."

"Ellen Layton," the name's owner mused blankly, staring into space. "What kind of person is Ellen Layton? Am I the hot-dog type, or the filet-mignon type? Do I like intellectual men, or the macho type? _What?"_

"Uh…" Roarke began, breaking into Ellen's frustration. "The important question is, are you sure that having your memory restored will mean your happiness?"

Ellen mulled this over for several long seconds before admitting, "I don't know." She turned to Roarke and added firmly, "That's what I have to find out."

Roarke searched her expression, then made a decision and turned to Julie, who moved forward, offering a box that looked for all the world like a small pirate treasure chest. "Thank you, Julie," he said, raising the lid and extracting a large lapel corsage which he displayed to Ellen. "These wildflowers grow only on Fantasy Island. They are a variety of the genus _Myosotis_, perhaps more familiar to you as 'forget-me-nots'. Most appropriate in your particular case."

"What can they do for me?" Ellen wanted to know.

"Under very special circumstances, such as yours, they have a certain magical quality. May I?" She gave a slight nod, and he began to tie the ribbon on the corsage around her wrist. "I want you to periodically inhale their fragrance. They shall be most instrumental in the restoration of your memory, Ms. Layton."

Ellen's face had lit by now. "That's marvelous!"

Roarke raised one hand. "Now tell me…what kind of person would you like to be, at this very moment?"

Ellen strolled across the room, thinking aloud. "I'd like to be…fun-loving…a free spirit…" Julie was grinning, her face alight with the possibilities as Ellen went on: "Intelligent, caring about people, attractive…"

Julie's smile faded slowly as she and Leslie became aware of Roarke's careful concentration on their guest. Ellen's image blurred in a kaleidoscope of golden and red colors, and when they faded, she stood this time clad in a purple jumpsuit with a strappy top, which had taken the place of the green-and-white patterned dress she had worn on the plane. Her hair hung loose around her face in a froth of soft light-brown curls. She stared down at herself in amazement, then looked up, overjoyed. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, this is wonderful! I just have to go see what I look like in the mirror." Excited, she scurried into the bedroom.

"She looks wonderful," Julie commented, impressed. "What was she like before she got amnesia?"

"Are you so sure you want to know?" Leslie countered, only then seeing Roarke's look that appeared to ask the same question.

"I'm sure," Julie said firmly. Her curiosity simply would not be denied.

Roarke said, "I will show you, Julie." He gestured behind them. "Look at the door." As if suddenly unsure after all, Julie stared at him, and he urged, "Go ahead, look." The room darkened inexplicably, and he ushered both girls back into the shadows. Leslie looked a little reluctantly in the direction her guardian had indicated, and Julie followed their gaze, an apprehensive expression on her lively face.

The door opened and an apparition stepped in—that was the only word Leslie could think of for it, since it looked like a transparent ghost of Ellen Layton. The figure was dressed in rather severe business attire, with a cornflower-blue skirt and jacket over an unadorned white blouse. She wore black pumps and eyeglasses, and her hair was piled atop her head in a less dressy version of the style Ellen had worn on the plane.

The figure slammed the bungalow door, stopped at the top of the steps, and looked back and forth as if surveying a row of people. "Gentlemen," she said coldly, "as chairperson of the board, I will get straight to the point." She seemed to be staring right at Roarke, Julie and Leslie, and Leslie had a hard time meeting the ghost's gaze; Julie's apprehension grew, while Roarke remained passive. "I will simply not tolerate your shoddy performances any longer. As of this moment, you will all find your severance checks waiting for you in your offices." She removed her glasses and shifted her gaze, as if responding to a collective reaction. "That's right, gentlemen…I said _all."_ And with that, she turned around and exited, closing the door smartly after her. The room lights returned.

"Holy cow," breathed Leslie, dispelling a shudder with a sharp headshake.

"Mr. Roarke," Julie said worriedly, "will she like going back to being…like that?"

Roarke admitted, "I don't know, Julie. But it is her fantasy, and that _is_ the real Ellen Layton." He gestured to the door. "We had best leave, or Leslie and I will be late."

"Us?" Leslie asked as they left. "What're we late for, the next appointment? Can I run up to my room real quick and grab my autograph book?"

Roarke and Julie both laughed. "I daresay you'll at least have time for that," he said humorously. "We need to get to the theater in town and help complete the setup for Mr. Barclay's and Mr. Ellison's fantasy. Julie, if you would be so kind, would you remain at the house and take any calls? Tattoo also promised to drop by with the day's mail."

"Sure," Julie agreed. "Want me to keep an eye on Ms. Layton too?"

"If necessary, yes," Roarke said. "Don't take more than a moment to get your book, Leslie, all right?"

Within ten minutes Roarke and Leslie, the latter duly armed with her autograph book, arrived at the town theater in a rover, and Roarke took Leslie to the backstage door and guided her in. There was noisy activity in progress on the stage; podiums were being set up and wired for electricity, and a platform containing what looked like nothing so much as a small throne, worked in intricate white wicker and padded in red velvet. Everything glittered gaudily, just as on a regular television game show. "Wow," Leslie said. "So how'm I supposed to help you with this one, Mr. Roarke?"

He grinned at her. "How would you like to be my stage assistant?"

She gasped loudly, making his grin get bigger. "Are you serious? Can I really? I'd _love_ it! Does that mean I get to dress up and wear makeup and heels?" She had never had any reason before to do the latter two items, and the prospect made her giddy. "My gosh, I could look at least _twenty!_ I'd be _glamorous_ for once in my life!"

Roarke laughed. "Yes, Leslie, just this once, you'll have the opportunity to wear makeup and pumps. Your dress is waiting in wardrobe, and you can even have your hair styled if you like. It will take some time, however, and I need to put you through a rehearsal, so that you'll know what is expected of you. We'll be having lunch here as well, so prepare yourself for a long afternoon."

Leslie shrugged and quipped, "I guess that's showbiz." Roarke laughed, and she had a sudden idea. "Do you think I could have a chance to call my friends and invite them to come and see the show? I think they'd have fun watching, and I know they're not doing anything else this weekend. Camille'll do anything to get out of quad-sitting."

Roarke laughed again. "Very well, there's a telephone in my dressing room. Come with me, and I'll show it to you."

Five hours later—after a lot of fussing with the stage scenery and props, which now included several doors, microphones hidden in the rafters, and bells on the podiums for the contestants to ring; two hours in the makeup and hairstyling chairs, and another thirty minutes getting dressed; and a decidedly herky-jerky rehearsal—Leslie hovered just behind the closed stage curtains, running lines over and over through her head, desperate to get them exactly right while at the same time searching for familiar faces in the audience. She was excited, and conversely more nervous, when she noticed several tables containing her friends, along with a number of their siblings and even some parents. Sheriff Tokita, who was on duty, was absent; but Miyoshi Tokita was there, along with Katie Ichino, who was surrounded by strollers holding quadruplets, and Carole McCormick, Lauren's mother. Both of Myeko's parents were in attendance, along with her twin brothers, Taro and Tomi, and little sister Sayuri; Carole McCormick had Lauren's brother and sister, Adrian and Deborah; and guarding the younger children were Hachiro "Toki" Tokita and Tommy Ichino. Maureen Tomai sat between Myeko and Michiko in the front row, to Leslie's right, and she could see Maureen's father, Janos Tomai, talking with Tadashi Sensei behind them. Miyoshi Tokita and Junko Sensei filled out the front row, with Lauren and Camille in between Myeko and Mrs. Tokita.

Leslie stepped back a few paces from the curtain and studied her attire. She was clad in a floor-length, glittering golden gown with a heart-shaped neckline (not too deeply cut, at Roarke's insistence) and shoulder straps that crisscrossed in the back. Her two-inch heels glittered the same gold as the dress, and her hair had been swept up atop her head in a shiny bun with a few wisps falling free around her face. She was wearing genuine diamond studs in her ears, and felt like a movie star at her first premiere.

Roarke came out and assessed his ward with a smile. "Well, Leslie, it's nearly time. Do you think you're ready?"

"As ready as I can get, I guess," she said, trying to control the faint shake in her voice.

"Good," said Roarke. "You did well in the rehearsal."

"But the rehearsal stank to the moon and back," Leslie protested.

"Don't you know that's good luck?" Roarke teased her. "Bad rehearsal, good show." She rolled her eyes, and he grinned and patted her shoulder. "Two minutes. Break a leg, young lady." He winked, and she snickered nervously, hoping this pronouncement wouldn't turn out to be literally prophetic.

She sneaked one more peek into the audience; the last few seats in the back were just filling up. Stagehands began scurrying into the wings, and one caught her eye and nodded at her. That was her cue to watch for the countdown. She settled herself just behind the opening between the curtains, watched the stagehand use his fingers to count down from ten, and took a deep breath when he sliced his arm through the air to signal that she should start the show.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Leslie said, relieved that her voice came out loud and clear. She could hear it echo through the auditorium beyond the still-closed curtains; the chatter outside died down immediately. "Good afternoon, and welcome to the Fantasy Island presentation of 'Ultimate'!" This was the name Roarke had thought up for their guests' competition. Through the curtains she saw a stage light illuminate a huge square, and took one more deep breath before parting the curtains and stepping through. The audience broke into applause; her skin tingled with a rising blush, and she grinned stupidly, unable to resist glancing at her friends in the front row. They were gaping at her as if they weren't sure it was really Leslie standing there. That made her feel more confident all of a sudden, and she launched into the rest of her spiel.

"You know our two famous contestants as well as I do," she said. "And here they are: Mr. Bob Barclay from _The Great Game_!" She swept one hand to her left, and right on cue, out came the famed game-show host, kissing the back of her hand in a grand gesture that made her blush again, and waving at the audience. Over the receding applause, she added, "And Mr. Ron Ellison from _I Bet a Million_!" This time she swept to her right, and Ellison emerged, also waving at the applauding attendees.

The clapping faded once more, and into the silence Leslie called, "The curtain, please." Behind her she heard the whoosh of fabric being drawn back, and taking the hand of each of the contestants, she stepped several paces backward onto the now-revealed stage, enjoying the _ooh!_ that rose from the audience. She noticed her friends' awed looks in the front row before focusing on her task.

"And now," Leslie concluded with just a little extra relish, "the host of our show: Fantasy Island's own Mr. Roarke!" A fanfare played, and Roarke, nattily clad in white tie and black tails, strode out from the stage-left wings, graciously acknowledging the applause that greeted him.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much." He turned to the waiting trio. "Thank you, Leslie; will you take our distinguished contestants to their places, please." Leslie gestured to the podiums and watched the men go to stand behind them while Roarke addressed the audience. "The rules of Ultimate are really quite simple, ladies and gentlemen. To begin…" He approached the podiums while Leslie left the stage, tucking herself into the wings and deeply grateful and relieved that she'd pulled off her hastily memorized speeches. "The first one of you to answer correctly will select one of those doors—" He gestured to a quartet of gilded-trimmed beige doors, each bearing a gold number and surrounded by white sequential lights. "—will go in and, _if he can,_ collect the first of three grand prizes." He walked upstage to speak to the audience again. "Ladies and gentlemen, the first grand prize will be the lady whom our contestants find to be the most desirable in the world. Both have been deeply in love with her for many years. Miss Lois Terry."

Leslie turned to the nervous and somewhat bewildered blonde woman standing beside her and made a _come-with-me_ gesture, seeing the men's broad smiles fade into shock as she led Lois Terry onto the stage. She let her stand for a moment, looking nervously into the audience, but smiling gamely. "Thank you, Miss Terry," said Roarke, and Lois hurriedly retreated into the wings, looking disturbed. She disappeared, and Leslie swallowed back some apprehension and followed her partway, scurrying all the way around behind the downstage curtains so that when she answered her next cue, she would be doing it from the stage-left wings and better accommodating Roarke. As she passed the doors, she wondered what their guests were going to find when they went through. _They're definitely not gonna see the wall of the theater,_ she reflected wryly.

She made it to stage left in good time. "And now," Roarke was saying all the while she was rushing to her new place, "gentlemen, if you think you have the answer to a question, simply ring the bell in front of you before the other one does." He looked at the audience again. "I mentioned that there are three grand prizes…but there are one, two, three, _four_ doors." He counted them off with one finger for emphasis. "Why? … Because one of those doors is the door of death."

Murmurs rose from the gathering, and Roarke looked at the two contestants. "If you wish to withdraw at this time, I will certainly understand."

Ellison flapped a hand in the air and kidded dismissively, "I've died before." There were a few scattered, self-conscious chuckles from the audience, and Leslie thought, _You mean like now?_

Barclay gave voice to her thought. "You're dying now." This time there was genuine laughter, and Ellison gave his companion an ostensibly friendly whack on the arm. Roarke, grinning with amusement, continued.

"Well, then." He moved to stand in front of the platform containing the odd throne-like chair. "And now, Leslie…may I have the first question, please?"

On cue, Leslie picked up a white card from a small table that stood nearby and went onstage to hand it to Roarke. "Thank you," he said, and she smiled at him before retreating one more time. From the wings she glanced between the stage and her friends, whose gazes were rapt on Roarke, while he read aloud: "Who wrote these words? _She is beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; she is woman, and therefore to be won."_

Ellison looked stymied; Barclay was beginning to grin, and when Roarke concluded, he slapped his bell with a flourish and responded expansively, "W. Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare is correct," Roarke announced, and Ellison drooped while Barclay raised a fist of triumph and the audience applauded. "Congratulations, Mr. Barclay. Choose your door." He gestured to the waiting doors.

Barclay let out a triumphant chuckle and walked to the doors, then started playing the audience like the game-show host he was. They began calling out numbers; Leslie hid her energetic giggles behind one hand as she saw her friends yelling out numbers with as much enthusiasm as anybody else. Roarke raised his hands. "Please, please."

The audience fell silent, and Barclay looked at Roarke. "I choose number three."

Applause swelled up, particularly from those who had encouraged him to pick that door; Leslie noticed this included Myeko and Camille, and grinned. Roarke said, "Number three. Open it, Mr. Barclay; claim your prize—if you can. If it's not the door of death."

Leslie had to hand it to the man; he reached out and threw it open, and she heard him say happily, "It's not the door of death." Without hesitation he walked right through and shut it behind him. The audience's murmuring swelled; Roarke signaled to some stagehands in the stage-right wings, and a large projection screen slowly lowered itself from the rafters. Leslie couldn't see any source for the picture, nor could anyone else; but the screen flickered into life anyway, and they watched Barclay stride into the frame, looking all around him at the foggy landscape he stood in, with its sticklike, leafless trees. The audience was so quiet that the sound of frogs croaking carried clearly through the auditorium. Barclay himself was a surprise, dressed as he was in clothing reminiscent of the Pilgrim days. Leslie made several mental connections and thought, _Oh no, not Salem in 1692…_ She had a fleeting flash of wondering if Barclay might run into her errant ancestress, Mary Jane Hamilton, who had been the one to earn the family its curse; then she just watched.

"Where am I?" Barclay muttered, stumbling uncertainly through the strange countryside. "Why am I dressed like this?" The screen's point of view followed him as he eventually walked in on a large group of people dressed as he was; at first no one noticed him, but then a sour-looking man lifted his head, spotted him and demanded, "Who is this stranger?"

Everyone else looked around too, and so did a woman whose anachronistic attire stood sharply out from all the rest. "Bob!" she cried. She looked like a 1930s farm girl out of a children's book, clad in a red gingham dress with a wide blue sash, her hair hanging loose but for a couple of braids twined with white ribbons.

"Lois!" he breathed, shocked.

"He knows the witch!" shouted the first man who had seen Barclay. "Seize him!"

Someone came up and grabbed Barclay from behind; he struggled, yelling, "Hey, what is this, a masquerade party? Come on, that woman's no witch. She's got her own advertising agency in New York!"

"Burn her!" howled the first man, and pandemonium descended. Barclay fought off several men trying to prevent him from getting to Lois; but when he'd untied her and started to pull her along after him, the whole frenzied mob launched into pursuit, yelling and screaming. All the time, the first man's voice kept roaring, "Burn her! Burn her!"

Barclay and Lois fled madly through the forlorn landscape, bare yards ahead of their pursuers, till they came to a halt near a cave. Barclay spotted it, ordered hastily, "In there," and yanked Lois along with him. Seconds later, dressed normally, they burst out onto the stage through the same door Barclay had chosen. The audience cheered; the overhead screen blanked out and rose back into the rafters.

Roarke closed the door and said, "Well done, Mr. Barclay, well done. You have won the woman you desire beyond all other women." Barclay beamed; Leslie let herself sag with relief finally, and shot another glance into the audience. _Boy, are my friends gonna have a gazillion questions at lunch on Monday,_ she thought, with a slightly hysterical giggle.


	13. Chapter 13

§ § § - April 10, 1982

Julie, meantime, was doing as she'd promised, taking care of Ellen Layton's fantasy. At the moment this consisted of going to the pond restaurant for an early supper; Ellen had missed lunch, walking as she had around the resort and taking inordinate pleasure in everything she saw. Julie found she liked this lady very much, and was deeply apprehensive about the recovery of her memory.

"Julie, I've been smelling these forget-me-nots all the way over here," Ellen said joyfully as they descended into the restaurant dining room. "This is the real me, isn't it, the way I feel right now?"

Julie found it necessary to dissemble, and did it with a skill she was sure would have made Roarke proud. "All I can say is, I have complete faith in Mr. Roarke. Come on." She gestured to her right and showed Ellen to a table on the far side of the room, where a young couple sat. They were vacationing at the resort and would be leaving late Sunday. "Mr. and Mrs. White, I'd like to present another of our guests, Ms. Ellen Layton."

The man stood up and reached across to shake hands with her. "Hello, Ellen." The three exchanged greetings and handshakes. "This is my wife Sandra, and call me Jim."

Sandra White smiled. "Why don't you have a seat and join us?"

"Thank you," exclaimed Ellen, delighted. "That's very nice of you." She took a seat, and Julie felt certain she'd left Ellen in good hands.

"Uh…if you'll excuse me, I have some things I have to do," she said, which really wasn't so far from the truth; she had two small problems that needed attending to at the hotel, and wanted to get them taken care of before Roarke and Leslie returned. It was her hope to show her godfather that she had everything under total control. "So I'll be leaving you in very good company, Ms. Layton."

"Thank you," Ellen said again, and feeling quite pleased with herself, Julie made her way back across the dining room. Nothing untoward could possibly happen here. She turned her mind to the situations at the hotel, and forgot entirely about Ellen Layton.

‡ ‡ ‡

"And now, Mr. Barclay, Mr. Ellison," Roarke said, "we come to part two of Ultimate, and the second of our grand prizes." A ten-minute intermission had just ended, and now the curtains had reopened and the two men were standing behind their podiums as before. The only difference in the setup was that the third door was now missing. Roarke looked out at the audience and announced the prize: "Five million dollars in cash."

Leslie let a hand drift to her mouth; the audience gasped audibly. Even Barclay and Ellison, who had probably seen fifty times as much in prizes awarded on each of their own game shows over the years, looked impressed. "Are you ready, gentlemen?" They braced themselves, with hands over their signal bells, and Roarke delivered the next question, without need of a cue card from Leslie. "What is the name of the Roman poet who wrote these most significant lines? _O, cursed lust forgo, for what dost thou not drive the hearts of men."_

This time it was Ellison who slammed down his palm on the bell. "I think it was…" He let a few beats elapse, then made his decision and said, "Virgil."

"And your thinking, Mr. Ellison," said Roarke, looking grim, "is absolutely…" Then he smiled. "Correct!" The audience broke into cheers and applause, and Ellison relaxed heavily in relief. Barclay looked rueful, but took the loss well. Roarke looked over into the stage-right wings and called, "Miss Terry?…if I may borrow your services once more." Lois Terry ventured onstage, still looking hesitant, but willing to play along. "And now, Mr. Ellison," Roarke continued, "it is your turn to choose."

Ellison gave Barclay a smug look and Barclay mimicked it in return; then Ellison went back to the remaining doors and played the audience just as his companion had done earlier. Roarke neatly silenced the noise by speaking up: "I remind you, one of those doors remains the door of death. You may withdraw if you wish."

In response Ellison retorted, "I choose door number one." This met with the approval of the audience, and Roarke nodded.

"Number one. Open it, Mr. Ellison, and enter with Miss Terry, and claim your prize, if you can. If it's not the door of death." He smiled.

"The door of death," snorted Ellison, clearly amused. He turned to Lois and slid an arm around her waist. "Come on." He opened the door to the same blackness that Barclay had found behind his at first; Lois looked worriedly up at him, and Ellison urged, "Come on!" With that they went through, pulling the door shut; the projection screen promptly descended from the rafters once more, and burst into life.

"Whoa," Leslie muttered, for this time the scene was the interior of a bank. It looked to date to the Depression era. Both Ellison and Lois were dressed in period clothing and each carried a large rifle. Unable to resist, Leslie edged onto the stage, feeling safe since the lights were low and everyone's attention was on the screen. "Mr. Roarke," she whispered, "you're making them _rob a bank_ in order to win the five million bucks?"

Roarke glanced at her but merely smiled in reply, and she made a face, annoyed with herself for forgetting yet again what an enigma her guardian could be when he chose. With no other way to get an answer to her question, she watched the screen.

Sure enough, Lois Terry remarked disgustedly, "Great. Now we're robbing a bank."

Ellison jumped right into the part. "Hands up," he ordered, half raising the rifle. The cowed-looking tellers promptly began stuffing money into bags, and for a few minutes it almost looked as if they were going to get out of this with a minimum of problems.

"Hey, it's all right," Ellison murmured excitedly, barely audible. "It's all just part of the fantasy—get it?"

"No," Lois hissed back. "I didn't know what I was doing being burned as a witch, and I don't know what I'm doing here!"

The tellers completed stuffing bags, and one came cautiously out from behind the bank of windows and handed two bulging sacks to Ellison and Lois. "Uh…here it all is," he said timidly.

"You didn't leave any out, did you, buster?" Ellison asked in mock threat.

"Oh no, no no, sir…that's the payroll for the whole town. Five million dollars."

His hands had been drooping, and now Ellison, having far too much fun by this time, prodded him with the gun. "Up, up!" The teller's hands shot back into the air, and he cackled gleefully to Lois, "Five million dollars!"

She glared sidewise at him. "Ron Ellison, let's get out of here!"

"Naw, let's give Mr. Roarke his money's worth," Ellison suggested, then turned to the teller before she could object. "All right. I want rings, watches, wallets…keep that loot a-comin'!" As people began digging into pockets and purses, the viewpoint on the screen showed a black shape pulling to a halt outside the door, and Leslie groaned softly to herself, knowing full well what it was. _Figures!_ she thought, shaking her head.

Ellison finally noticed as well, but he giggled delightedly, "Oh, that Roarke's beautiful! He's got policemen!" The cops swarmed in, at least half a dozen of them, and Ellison just couldn't seem to resist, acting like a crook in a Keystone Kops film. "All right, coppers, beat it or I'll blow ya away!"

Instead the policemen opened fire with enormous enthusiasm, and Ellison and Lois were forced to duck, amid screams of terror from the bank's other occupants. Bullets shattered the window behind the two "robbers" and blasted the entire room in a fusillade of breaking glass and splintering wood. "Holy cow, Lois, they're using real bullets!" Ellison squeaked in horror. "They're actually tryin' to kill us! There must be a back door somewhere around here…" She seemed all too willing to look for it, and they slithered around the room's perimeter, ducking the entire time, then spilling out the conveniently placed back door and, without warning, onto the game-show set through door number one. The screen went black and retracted again, and Leslie quickly ducked backstage.

"Excellent, Mr. Ellison, excellent!" Roarke praised him. "You have claimed the second prize in even quicker time than Mr. Barclay did the first. Congratulations to you both." He led the applause, and Leslie released a little sigh, picturing Monday lunch at school again. All she could think was that if Ellison had been only a shade more careless than he'd actually been, that first door would indeed have been the door of death.

The curtains swooshed closed, and Leslie reemerged onto the stage with a sense of relief. She was thirsty and hoping there might be some refreshments somewhere. Roarke noticed and smiled at her. "How are you doing?"

"Getting bored," she admitted. "You haven't had me doing very much, so I've just been standing back there watching my friends in the audience."

Roarke laughed. "I'm sure that must have been quite entertaining," he said teasingly, "but I promise, you do still have a part to play, so don't run away just yet. There are drinks and snacks in my dressing room, if you care to have something while we're in intermission."

"Sounds great, thanks, Mr. Roarke," she said and hurried across the stage into the wings, where the dressing rooms were located. She spotted Roarke's almost instantly and let herself in, filling a glass with pineapple juice and slaking her thirst before arranging some fruit slices onto a plate.

"Oh, excuse me," said a voice, and she looked up in surprise to see Lois Terry. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but I was looking for Mr. Roarke."

"He's still on stage," Leslie told her. "At least, he was when I came back here. You…I mean, I guess Mr. Barclay and Mr. Ellison didn't tell you what they were doing."

"No, those two fools," Lois muttered, loitering in the doorway for a moment. "All I heard was that I was getting a free trip to Fantasy Island, and nobody in the world would pass that up, unless they were certifiable. I had no idea I was going to end up in all these crazy situations."

Leslie ventured, "Mr. Roarke says they're both in love with you."

"I know that," Lois said irritably. "But I never expected them to go into competition for me. I feel like a pawn being shoved around at will. Don't I get any say in this?"

"Perhaps, Miss Terry, you will simply have to assert yourself," Roarke suggested, surprising both Lois and Leslie. He smiled at the woman. "Surely you know that neither of those men would hurt you for the world."

"I suppose not, but this whole charade is just ridiculous! I really don't want to be a part of this anymore, Mr. Roarke. I insist that you include me out, to quote Goldwyn."

Roarke's smile was gently regretful. "I am sorry, Miss Terry…but the fantasy is well under way, and I have no power to stop it now." On her stunned look, he gestured at the table of food beside which Leslie stood. "Why don't you have something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry," Lois muttered and left. Roarke watched her, then came into the dressing room and helped himself.

"Are you planning to check on Julie?" Leslie asked.

Roarke nodded. "Perhaps now is a good time." He picked up the phone and dialed the main house, had a short conversation with someone, and hung up. "That was Tattoo; he says Julie is taking care of some things at the hotel, and apparently she talked him into holding down the fort, as you say."

She grinned. "Then I guess at least Miss Layton's fantasy is going okay. Which is lucky. This one's nerve-wracking." Roarke chuckled.

All too soon the ten minutes were up, and Leslie rushed across the stage to take her place on the proper side before the curtains parted. The audience drifted into silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, we now come to that portentous moment for which we have all been waiting." Roarke's voice was laden with promise; he was sitting in the wicker "throne" on the platform. "Mr. Barclay, Mr. Ellison, I have a proposition for you. You have each successfully claimed one of the grand prizes, so you are tied. I propose, for the final prize, a tie-breaker—winner take all."

That made the men visibly nervous; they shifted uneasily behind their podiums as the audience murmured. But they refused to give up. "Sure, why not, Mr. Roarke?" Barclay said.

"Okay," Ellison agreed. "Winner take all."

Roarke nodded. "Splendid. The winner of the third prize then also claims prizes number one and two." He paused for effect, then spoke slowly and deliberately. "Of course, there are only two doors left now—one of which is the door of death, if you remember. There will be no questions this time, for you must share together the contest which will decide the ultimate winner." He let that sink in, then called, "Are you ready, Leslie?"

She was, and now she dragged a large round covered object onto the stage beside the platform where her guardian sat. "All set, Mr. Roarke," she said, and pulled the orange cover off the object to reveal a large glittering wheel. It was divided into sections, each with a number at the wheel's rim.

Roarke stepped down from the platform. "To save you the agony of deciding which door to select, Leslie will spin the wheel, and the pointer will choose for you. Good luck, gentlemen." He paused, letting the tension build a little more, and Leslie took the chance to slide a look at her friends in the audience. They all waved at her the second she did, and she grinned at them. Then Roarke prompted, "Leslie?"

She reached up and gave the wheel a gentle push; it rotated very easily on its peg, and she watched it spin as avidly as anyone else, thinking it would be just her luck to have it stop on the number of one of the missing doors and require her to spin again. But after about thirty seconds the wheel clicked to a stop; the pointer indicated the number 4.

"Number four," Roarke said, mostly for the benefit of the audience who couldn't see what number the wheel had stopped on. She stayed beside the wheel while Roarke went to the indicated door; the two contestants emerged from their podiums and met him there. "Well, Mr. Barclay, Mr. Ellison, which of you will open it?"

After a moment Barclay surprised Leslie by saying, "Why don't you do the honors?"

"Yes, Mr. Roarke," Ellison agreed, almost eagerly. "You open the door."

Roarke nodded and said quietly, "Very well." And with that, he reached out and twisted the knob, ever so slowly—then yanked the door open with such sudden force that Leslie started beside the wheel. The two contestants jumped back with gasps, and there were even a few screams from the audience. Leslie gulped back a cry of her own: inside the doorway stood a skeleton, faintly backlit in red.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Roarke said, voice quiet but steely. "The door of death."


	14. Chapter 14

§ § § - April 10, 1982

Barclay and Ellison looked uneasily at each other; Roarke, meantime, raised one hand and waved it deliberately. The skeleton faded from view, prompting more gasps from the audience. Leslie noticed that some of them came from her friends, and she wondered if this was really the first time they'd ever seen him perform one of his "magic tricks". Roarke then said, "If you will follow me, please," and let the two men precede him through before going in and closing the door.

Once more the screen dropped from the rafters and the lights dimmed. Leslie stood hugging herself beside the wheel, eyes riveted. The three men emerged into view on the screen into what looked to Leslie like a remote part of the island; Roarke stopped and said, "Well, I believe this is far enough, gentlemen. Now I said the third prize was precious, and so it is: it is life itself."

"What're you trying to tell us, Mr. Roarke?" Barclay asked.

"Simply that you now stand on one side of an island. To win…to save your lives…you must get to the other side. To do that, you must work together, as you did when you were young and struggling to find success."

"Is that all?" Ellison asked, frowning.

Roarke shook his head. "I must also inform you that the forest is owned by a foreign prince, who has set his personal archer to guard it—with specific orders to kill any creature that moves in his domain."

That was too much for Ellison. "Look," he barked, "to hell with this. I say we call the fantasy off!"

"Oh no, I'm sorry," Roarke said, without sounding apologetic in the slightest. "I cannot interfere with a fantasy once it has begun."

"But we want you to take it off!" Ellison shouted, chasing Roarke as he started to depart, with Barclay right at his side. "We—"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Roarke cut him off, raising his hands. "It isn't only you I must be concerned about…oh, no indeed! You see, the archer—oh, he's called Magog, by the way—is also fulfilling a fantasy of his own."

Ellison sounded a bit resigned now. "Which is?"

"To hunt the most dangerous prey in the world," Roarke said. "Man."

The two men turned slowly away, each apparently lost in thought. After a moment Barclay ventured hesitantly, "Look, Ron, I'm—I'm sorry about all this."

"Aw, it's as much my fault as it is yours, Bob," Ellison admitted. He whipped around and began, "Look, Mr. Roarke, I—" But Roarke had taken that moment to absent himself from the scene altogether; the two men were alone.

As they stood there on the screen, calling Roarke's name to no avail, the name's owner emerged from the fourth door and smiled broadly at the audience, who released a collective groan of relief. A little sheepish laughter followed it, and Roarke grinned outright and made his way upstage, extending an arm to Leslie. The screen, meantime, had gone blank again and receded upwards, while the gathering began to applaud.

"Thank you," Roarke said as Leslie fell in by his side and he settled his arm around her shoulders. "I thank you very much for attending today's game; and I would also like to thank my ward, Miss Leslie Hamilton, for being my stage assistant today." He led the applause for her, and she grinned foolishly, waving once at the audience. As the noise died down, Roarke continued, "You've all been a most wonderful group, and I promise you that you won't be left completely in suspense. Please be here tomorrow afternoon at the same time, for the conclusion of the show. Thank you all again." The curtains began to close off the stage, and Roarke and Leslie stepped back so that they were hidden behind them.

Beyond, the audience's applause died out into somewhat confused murmuring and the sounds of chairs creaking a bit as people arose. Leslie looked up at Roarke. "Do you really think they're going to make it?"

Roarke smiled faintly. "Only if they can work together. It's entirely up to Mr. Barclay and Mr. Ellison to get themselves, and Miss Terry, out of their latest predicament. That's the biggest question of the entire game."

"And the scariest," Leslie added, fielding Roarke's nod. "I guess it's time to go see how Julie's doing with Ms. Layton, huh?"

As it turned out, Julie had received a rather unpleasant little surprise of her own. She had easily taken care of the problems at the hotel, returned to the main house and assured Tattoo that she would do just fine on her own, and taken the chair behind Roarke's desk while Tattoo departed, after a question or two about whether she was really sure she'd be all right on her own. Within five minutes of his departure, however, a man strode into the study without bothering to knock and all but stomped straight across the room till he fetched up against the desk, his face a roiling mix of emotions that Julie couldn't sort out.

"Uh…hi," she said, flustered. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, you can. I understand you have a guest called Ellen Layton here on your island." At her confused nod, he announced, "Well, she's my wife, and now that I've finally found her again, I want her back. Take her to me right away."

"Oh…uh…well," Julie floundered, knocked even further off balance. "Um…listen, Mr., uh, sir…I left her at the restaurant. If you'd like to go looking for her there…"

"I just came from there, and she left with some big stooge with black hair," he blustered. "I don't want that toady laying hands on my wife for any reason, so I insist that you find her, and find her now! Tell her it's time to come back home!"

By now poor Julie was totally discombobulated. "Right, sure…as soon as I…well, I mean, right away." She raked both hands through her blonde curls, trying to gather her wits. "Um, look, tell you what…why don't you go back to your bungalow…"

"I'm at the hotel," the man fairly shouted.

"Okay, to the hotel…and I promise, when I find Ms. Layton, I'll bring her right over." _Anything to get this guy out of here,_ she thought frantically. "Just try to stay calm, and I'll do all I can to help you."

"Yeah, you better," the man said threateningly, and with noticeable reluctance he retreated the way he had come in. Julie leaped out of Roarke's chair and promptly took to her heels down the trail that led to the bungalows, relieved that at least she knew who the black-haired "stooge" was that Ellen was with, since they always knew who was in the bungalows. She was out of breath by the time she flew up the steps of Mike Collins' bungalow and knocked frantically on the door.

A moment later Collins opened it, a napkin-wrapped bottle of champagne in one hand. "Yes?" he asked brightly.

Julie glanced at him, still a little unnerved from the encounter with the other man, and scanned the main room; to her relief, Ellen stood not far away, watching in surprise. Relieved, Julie blurted, "Uh…excuse me. Miss Layton, there's a man looking for you who says he's your—" She shot Collins a glance, then finished, "husband!"

The cork in Collins' champagne bottle chose that very second to burst out of its confines, and Ellen's face lengthened and mouth gaped with shock. "My _husband?"_

"He's very irate," Julie said breathlessly, "and he's bound to track you down here sooner or later. I just…thought I should warn you." She felt a little helpless, but she knew she had done all she could, which gave her some measure of relief for the first time.

"Uh, yes," Ellen said, dazed. "Thank you."

Julie shot an apologetic look at Collins, then hastily retreated, hearing Collins' deflated thanks as he pushed the door closed behind her. She hastened down the steps and across the small lawn, eyes darting everywhere on the lookout for Ellen's alleged "husband", and broke into another sprint for the safety of the main house, desperately afraid of encountering him again.

Roarke and Leslie didn't return to the main house till nearly five, mostly because they both had to change back into their street clothes and because Leslie had needed to have the makeup removed and her hair restored to its usual style. By then Julie had managed to work herself into quite a state, and her frazzled look surprised them. "Why, Julie, is everything all right?" Roarke asked in concern.

"Well, I…it's just that I had this awful scare," Julie said, and at their blank looks, wasted no further time pouring out the story of what had happened earlier that afternoon. Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, neither quite able to hide their amusement, though Roarke was more successful at it than Leslie was.

"Wow," Leslie said when she'd finished. "Didn't you ever get his name?"

"He didn't tell me," Julie admitted. "I forgot to ask, too. He scared me too much."

Roarke chuckled. "Don't worry, Julie, you did only what you felt was right. But I happen to know that Miss Layton does in fact have a husband, from whom she is currently trying to obtain a divorce—or was at the time of the accident that took her memory. So she is not a 'miss' at all, but a Mrs.—and definitely not the 'Mrs.' of the man who confronted you today, Julie. In fact…" He grinned. "I have little doubt that, with the help of those flowers, Mrs. Layton more than easily took care of both impostors."

Julie and Leslie looked at each other, then both got it at the same moment. They snickered, Julie a little reluctantly. "I bet she dredged up some of that Big Bad Madam Chairwoman persona and sent them running for their lives," Leslie speculated.

Roarke and Julie both laughed at her phrasing. "Undoubtedly," Roarke agreed. "Now, Leslie, if you would, why don't you call Tattoo at his cottage and see if he'd like to join us for the evening meal, and you can tell him about your exciting afternoon."

§ § § - April 11, 1982

Just after lunch, Roarke had a visit from none other than Charles Layton, who had come out from Chicago immediately once he'd received word from Roarke that his missing amnesiac wife was on the island. Roarke had already sent Leslie to the theater to get her hair and makeup done, promising her that he would be there when his other business was complete, and was thus alone in the study when Layton arrived.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Roarke," Layton said, shaking hands. He was an easygoing man with a soft-spoken demeanor, with a somewhat haggard look that told Roarke he had suffered perhaps more than his share of strife in his marriage to Ellen.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Layton," Roarke said warmly, rising. "Have you had a chance to freshen up?"

"Yeah, just for a few minutes at the bungalow they said Ellen's staying in," he replied. "But to tell you the truth, I've been sitting too long and I need some exercise."

"Ah, then I believe I can accommodate you. Come with me, if you would, please," Roarke requested, and led Layton out the French shutters, across the terrace and to the four or five trails that branched away from it in various directions. He ushered the other man ahead of him down the shortest of these paths, and got straight to the point. "Tell me, Mr. Layton, how are the divorce proceedings coming along…if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Layton sighed wearily. "That's why I came here, Mr. Roarke. I want to tell Ellen I've changed my mind. I won't contest it any longer; she can have her freedom."

"Really!" Roarke said in surprise, aware of children's voices not very far away, raised in chorus in a game of Ring Around the Rosy. "Well, then, perhaps you might be able to tell her yourself." He took in Layton's bewildered look, then drifted to one side of the path and indicated the circle of little girls in a small nearby clearing. For the first time Layton became aware that an adult voice was mixed in with them, and joined Roarke, watching in pure astonishment as Ellen Layton skipped with five or six little girls in a circle.

"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!" they cried, and tumbled to the ground in delight, Ellen's laughter just as genuine as that of the children.

"That can't be Ellen," Layton said, stunned.

"Oh yes, that is your wife," Roarke assured him.

"But Mr. Roarke…Ellen hates kids," Layton protested.

"Obviously she doesn't, as you can see."

"I haven't seen her laugh like that in years." Layton's voice was filled with disbelief; he stared, clearly trying to absorb what his eyes showed him, while a laughing Ellen climbed back to her feet with the little girls. "You know, seeing her like this…maybe I don't want to give her up."

"Then, Mr. Layton, I suggest you do something about it. But not now. I promise you there will be an opportunity later for you to see her, at the proper time." He smiled and led Layton back to the main house.

Layton was silent till they got there; then he shrugged a little and smiled, his weariness shining even through his confusion. "Okay, Mr. Roarke, I'll take your word for it. I'd like nothing better than a nice long nap anyway." He managed a grin, and Roarke smiled back and wished him a good nap, watching him depart. He then checked his gold pocket watch and left the house himself, on his way to the theater.

There, he found Leslie nearly finished undergoing the makeup ritual in a chair, and paused when she smiled a greeting at him. "As glamorous as ever, hm?"

"Yep," she agreed, then slanted a glance at her feet, blinking a few times as the makeup artist briskly dusted her cheeks with blusher. "But you know what? I had no idea high heels hurt so much. My feet never quit killing me from yesterday, and now that I've got these shoes back on again, I think they're getting ready to mutiny."

Roarke grinned with sympathy. "As you said yesterday, and I quote—'I guess that's showbiz'." She rolled her eyes, and he patted her shoulder. "It won't be long now. Let me get changed, and we'll both get out onto the stage and wait."

"Wait for what?" Leslie asked. But he only smiled and went on his way, and she sighed gently, hoping Barclay and Ellison had managed to survive their ordeal and save Miss Terry's hide as well.

In a little less than ten minutes Leslie was on the stage, squinting into the audience again and not only surprised but gratified to see that all her friends and their relatives who had been there yesterday were here today as well. Camille's and Lauren's fathers had joined them this time, as well as Maureen's mother, who had had a catering job the day before and most likely must have been filled in by her daughter on what she'd missed. She stepped back, cast Roarke a glance, and got a nod in turn, telling her it was time.

Once more she pushed out through the curtains, and smiled at the applause that welled up. "Thank you. Thanks for returning, everybody, and welcome back to Ultimate. Today we're going to find out whether our two contestants have beaten the odds, cheated death, and won the final grand prize. Now may I present our host, Mr. Roarke!"

The curtains parted behind her and she retreated to her previous spot beside the numbered wheel, while Roarke acknowledged the applause. "Thank you all. As Leslie has told you, we will soon discover whether either, or perhaps even both, of our contestants has overcome the final challenge. Now it may seem a little tedious that we must wait for their return, but I promise you, you'll be well rewarded in the end, whatever the outcome. Thank you for your patience." He went to stand near the "throne" on the platform; Leslie settled her stance as best she could with her aching feet, and tried to hide the discomfort the shoes were causing her. She wasn't altogether sure she had succeeded; she saw Camille lean over to Michiko and whisper, making a discreet little pointing motion at Leslie.

Fortunately it wasn't very long: only a little more than five minutes slid by before, at the exact same moment, the fourth door crashed open and an arrow thunked into the chair arm not two feet from where Roarke had taken up a relaxed post. Three figures stumbled through the open door and the audience gasped aloud; Roarke simply cast the arrow a sort of _oh, is it just you?_ look. The audience broke into applause, and Roarke closed the door and crossed the stage toward the contestants, pausing long enough on the way to detach the arrow from the chair arm.

"You are safe now," he said, smiling at them. "You have won the most important prize of all, Mr. Barclay, Mr. Ellison—your lives, and the life of someone you love." The applause swelled once more, and Barclay and Ellison reached across Lois Terry in between them and shook hands, grinning foolishly at each other.

It took some time for the audience to disperse this time after the curtains had closed; but Leslie finally got the autographs she hadn't had the chance to collect before now, and admitted to the two men her memories of watching both their game shows with her mother and Kristy and Kelly some years back. That made both men laugh. "We're glad we could be part of your happier memories, Leslie," Barclay said.

"So how'd you wind up here?" Ellison inquired, and that prompted a retelling of the story of Leslie's arrival on the island. The conversation went in a few other directions from there, till they realized all was quiet in the auditorium and the stagehands began to dismantle the game-show set, working around them.

"We're in everyone's way," Lois Terry said, "and as for me, I can use a nice hot bath and a very long night's sleep. Thanks, Mr. Roarke, even if I'm not entirely sure what for."

"We're sure," Barclay said, grinning. "And that's all we need."

Despite the shorter time Leslie had spent in the heels, it was enough to exacerbate the problem with her feet, and she ended up limping out to the rover. Roarke regarded her with new sympathy. "Poor girl," he said. "I think I can give you something that will help take care of the ache. However, it means you'll have to relax for the rest of the day and not leave the house."

"I think I can handle that," Leslie said, groaning as she eased herself into the passenger seat. "As long as someone tells me how Mrs. Layton's fantasy ends. Oooooh…I'm not sure I'll be able to walk at all when we get back."

In the end Roarke had to carry her into the house and up the stairs, where he settled her on the comfortable sofa in the spare room and brought her a few books. Then he left the room, returning some minutes later with a small foot bath, filled with warm water. "I've put a special potion into this," he said. "It should take no more than two hours to completely heal your feet. By then, it should be close to mealtime, and you can come down to join us without assistance." He plugged in the cord that snaked out of one side of the little plastic tub, and the water frothed as if boiling. Leslie had already tugged off the pantyhose she normally wore with her weekend clothing; now she gingerly eased her feet into the bath and closed her eyes with a loud groan of delight.

"Wow," she moaned, her entire body relaxing. "Oh boy, does this ever feel _fabulous."_

"Good, good," Roarke said, smiling. "Then I'll leave you to rest." He departed, and she sat for a while just savoring the warm bubbling water around her feet, before picking up a book and starting to read. She was looking forward to telling her friends, even about this.


	15. Chapter 15

§ § § - April 11, 1982

"I can arrange your departure on the first flight in the morning," Roarke said, circling the desk to confront an angry Ellen Layton. He didn't bother mentioning that she would have been leaving on that flight anyway, since that was the one on which all outgoing fantasizers departed. "But before you go, there is something quite important I would like to speak to you about."

"As long as it doesn't take very long," Ellen said, sounding more conciliatory now that she had what she wanted. She had stormed in a few moments before, complaining that she was sick and tired of strange men hitting on her all the time and taking advantage of her newly cured amnesia, and now she simply wanted to get off the island and go back home for some peace and quiet.

Roarke nodded. "Ms. Layton, as I mentioned before, you came here a victim of amnesia. You asked that I help restore your memory."

"Well, you succeeded," Ellen said, looking puzzled.

"Yes, I have. Yesterday you became a carefree, fun-loving young lady; you were happy. May I ask if you are happy now, as the real Ellen Layton?"

"Why shouldn't I be? I have everything in life I want!"

"Do you?" he riposted. "And yet, in each of us, there exists a second self, an alter ego. It is usually quite different from the façade life often forces upon us. Ms. Layton, I suspect you have had a very bad case of alter ego."

She stared at him, and he waited for her to speak; but when she didn't, he offered, "May I remind you what your other self is like?" Even as he spoke, he lifted a hand in a graceful motion, and beyond the French shutters images suddenly appeared. Ellen Layton saw herself just after her initial arrival on the island, marveling at her new self: _"Oh, Mr. Roarke, this is wonderful!"_ She saw herself dancing happily with a man at the pond restaurant, saw herself joyously playing Ring Around the Rosy with a bunch of little girls.

Dazed, she stared up at Roarke. "I looked…like that? I felt like that?"

"Oh yes, Ms. Layton. You did indeed." He made one more deliberate gesture toward the open shutters, then walked out of the house, leaving his guest where she stood. It was very much up to her to decide what she really wanted. He waited just long enough to see Charles Layton appear in the doorway, then left.

§ § § - April 12, 1982

Julie seemed worried. "But if Mrs. Layton wanted to go home," she said, "then there's no reason to expect her at the dock today."

"Oh, but I believe there is," Roarke assured her. "You'll see. And how are your feet today, Leslie?"

"Like brand-new," Leslie said, still in a state of wonder at how thoroughly refreshed they felt. "You should sell whatever you put in my foot bath, Mr. Roarke. You could become the richest man in the solar system with that stuff."

Julie peered at her in surprise. "Wow, that must've been some stuff."

"You should try it next time your feet hurt," Leslie said enthusiastically. And just then a rover curved the lane before them and stopped to let out Charles and Ellen Layton.

"May I ask which Ellen Layton I am addressing?" Roarke inquired.

Ellen smiled. "Hopefully the best of both. At least, I'm working very hard at it."

"We both are," her husband put in, and with that they said their goodbyes and the Laytons headed for the plane. They turned back just in time for the second rover to pull up and discharge Ron Ellison, Bob Barclay and Lois Terry.

"Ah," Roarke said warmly. "The ultimate contestants…and Miss Terry, how lovely you look. Thank you for your special cooperation."

Lois Terry seemed much happier, Leslie thought. She smiled and replied, "Oh, thank you, Mr. Roarke, for the most unusual experience of my life." She chuckled as she finished the sentence, and they all joined in.

" 'Thank you' is too mild for what Ron and I are taking away with us," Barclay said. "New values about friendship, about love…" He smiled at Lois.

"What was your quotation?" Ellison asked Roarke. " 'Pride goeth before the fall'? You had us both pegged pretty good, Mr. Roarke. Anyway, thanks for the ultimate lesson."

"But nobody won," Leslie protested.

Roarke looked at her in surprise, then observed, "Technically, Leslie is right, you know. Of course, I could arrange one final stunt…uh, what do they call it in the sports world? A…sudden-death playoff?"

There were groans and then laughter, and Ellison retorted playfully, "Only if _you're_ the contestant, Mr. Roarke!" Leslie got a good laugh out of that, and Julie joined in, while their guests started away for the plane amid a flurry of farewells.

Julie got hold of herself and peered at Roarke. "Mr. Roarke, which one of them is really gonna win Miss Terry? To marry, I mean?"

"That will be decided by a game called love, Julie, in which I will have no influence," Roarke said smilingly. "And may the best man win."

§ § § - September 2, 2006

They were laughing by the time the story wound up. "So that's what turned you off high heels, is it, then?" Christian teased Leslie.

Laughing, she nodded. "As a matter of fact, it was. But even despite that, I still had a really great time being the stage assistant. And anyway, it was worth it, getting that foot bath afterward. I've never had anything since then that felt so darn good."

"Just wear some high heels this weekend, an' ye'll have an excuse to ask uncle for another foot bath," Rogan offered wickedly, earning slugs from Julie, Leslie and Miranda for his efforts. He fended them off and then focused on Christian. "So…tell me something, were you the foreign prince who owned whatever island those poor souls wound up trying to escape from?"

Christian fell back in his seat, laughing in his turn and raising his hands. "No, no, you're looking at the wrong man. In truth, until I started Enstad Computer Services, I had never owned anything in my life. That fantasy happened a year before I opened the business, so it _definitely_ wasn't me. Although," he mused, a twinkle in his hazel eyes, "I wouldn't have put it past my brother Arnulf to have been the foreign prince in question. A venture like that, with orders to kill whatever moved, would have been right up his alley…and my father's, too." He was greeted with dubious chuckles at that, and hiked a brow. "If you don't believe me, try telling my brother or sister that story, and they'll say the same thing."

"So was it your brother Arnulf, then?" Miranda persisted, grinning.

"Not that I know of," Christian bantered, "but that doesn't mean it wasn't. After all, they never told _me_ anything." This time the laughter was genuine, and they all settled down for a few minutes, slaking their thirst.

Then Roarke recalled, "There were some weekends when we greeted Julie in the mornings, but she didn't accompany us to meet our guests. As often as not, she was busy with some other activity. You'll remember those, Leslie…"

"Oh yeah," Leslie said, nodding. "Some of them stand out in my mind more than others, but I remember them. I know we said her first fantasy was the one with the magician, but I need to correct myself—it was really the weekend where Father had to help me fight Mephistopheles. But Julie was interested even before that."

§ § § - October 10, 1981

As ever, Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie greeted one another upon meeting at the top of the porch steps; and a moment later Julie trotted up to them and bid them all good morning as well. Roarke beamed at her. "And where is my favorite goddaughter off to this morning, huh?" he inquired jovially.

Julie grinned; she could remember from her earliest days the way Roarke used to gently tease her and Delphine, without ever showing favoritism, by calling each of them his favorite goddaughter. "Actually, I was thinking," she said. "A few weeks have gone by here with you, and…"

She paused, and Roarke prompted her with, "Yes?"

"Well, I was wondering if I could start going with you to the plane dock, to help welcome the guests."

"Oh, I see!" Roarke said thoughtfully, surveying Leslie and Tattoo, who looked at each other with interest. "Well, actually, that is a distinct possibility, Julie, but not quite yet. When you've had a little more seasoning, yes, of course. However," he added, seeing her face fall, "I do need your invaluable assistance in organizing the children's party for this afternoon." He gestured behind her to the side lawn of the main house, where preparations were already in progress.

Julie looked around, then lit up so totally that Leslie was amused by the transformation. "Oh, I would _love_ it, Mr. Roarke!" Julie cried.

Roarke looked very pleased. "I knew I could rely on my favorite godchild."

"You can, you can," Julie exclaimed. "Thanks!" She rushed off to lend her assistance to the party, and Tattoo watched her go with the sort of avuncularly indulgent look he often regarded Leslie with.

"She's a wonderful girl," Roarke remarked. "I do hope she'll be able to stay with us."

"No reason she shouldn't," said Leslie. "After all, isn't it her dream to open up that B&B in her family house?"

Tattoo grinned. "I think the boss just means that maybe Julie will get tired of helping with the fantasies, somewhere down the line, and decide to try doing something else to earn the money she needs for her inn."

"Whatever she does, she'll have a good start on her new job right now, helping plan parties," Leslie remarked.

"Indeed," Roarke agreed as the car pulled up. "Well, we'd best be on our way."

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"I thought you said her first fantasy was that weekend with Mephistopheles," Josh said to Leslie.

"It was," Julie spoke up. "That fantasy with the former Ziegfeld girls was the first one uncle allowed me to handle, with or without help. But that was the first weekend I got up the nerve to ask if I could come to the plane dock. Uncle must've kept it in mind, because the very next weekend, there I was, right along with him, Tattoo and Leslie."

"And she was with us for the next several weekends in a row," Leslie said. "Tattoo must have really needed a vacation. Anyway, Father finally gave her a break about a month later, and I think it was a good thing he did."

§ § § - November 14, 1981

"Ah, good morning, Julie," Roarke greeted, seeing her hurry up to join them. _Hurry_, Leslie soon realized, was the operative word, for Julie looked as if she were poised to run off again the first chance she got.

"Mm-hmm," was her only response. "You know that family that arrived here yesterday, with the three little kids? Well…I volunteered to babysit while their parents went out for a little walk."

"That was very considerate of you, Julie," Roarke commended her.

Julie's face grew stormy. "Well, the 'little walk' was to the other side of the island. And now they're trapped by a cloudburst, and they can't get back till tomorrow!"

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie exchanged glances, and Tattoo voiced all their thoughts with a succinct, "Uh-oh."

"Mr. Roarke, I'm practically a nervous wreck. They put a frog in my bathtub…and then, then I-I found _worms_ in the sugar bowl!" Despite themselves, Tattoo and Leslie started to snicker; all it took was one mutual glance and they couldn't quite control themselves. Even Roarke had trouble controlling his amusement. "And who knows what they're up to right now!"

"Courage, my dear Julie," Roarke encouraged her, with a fist raised for emphasis. "I'm sure Tattoo and Leslie will assume your duties while you struggle through your noble deed." He drew in an audible nasal breath, which just made it all the harder for Leslie and Tattoo not to burst out laughing.

Julie looked at them, a little dazed, and murmured, "Thank you, Tattoo…Leslie." Slowly she turned away and started back down the lane; there was reluctance in every step, where there had been urgency before.

"You think she's all right?" Tattoo asked curiously.

Leslie smirked. "I think she was just hoping we'd let her come to the plane dock with us so she could get out of dealing with those little monsters." Tattoo let out a crack of laughter, and Roarke let his smile have its way as they headed for the approaching rover.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"I just knew you were laughing at me," Julie grumbled good-naturedly.

"Think of it as early practice for havin' Rory, lass," Rogan offered, which made Rory give his father a dirty look and everyone else break down into laughter at the boy's expression. "Now I'd like to know how a mere cloudburst could have delayed those people till the next day. Unless they were descendants of the Wicked Witch of the West."

"First of all, they walked," Julie told him, "and second, you should know by now that a Fantasy Island cloudburst is a lot more than just a quick rain shower."

"Indeed," said Roarke. "They can be surprisingly violent—often they'll include lightning and thunder, and sometimes even hail."

"And more often than not they'll last half a day," Leslie said. "I've always figured somebody dubbed these things 'cloudbursts' as an attempt at a joke."

"Sounds like it to me," Josh said, joining in the others' chuckles. "Well, so tell us more. These reminiscence sessions are addicting. Maybe you and I should move here, Miranda…it's just possible this island could benefit from a couple of pediatricians."

"New York City needs us more than Fantasy Island does," Miranda said, smiling a little wistfully. "It's a lovely idea, of course, but I've no doubt uncle sees to it that all the people here are well taken care of. So we'd better deliver our services to those who most need them. Go on, tell us some more."

§ § § - November 21, 1981

"Good morning, everybody." Julie tossed off this perfunctory greeting without even looking up from the clipboard she held, striding right across their path.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Roarke asked, finally stopping her.

Julie paused, a little winded, her manner rushed. She gasped in a hasty breath and reeled off: "To arrange flowers for two weddings, make up menus for three garden parties, and escort a retirement-home tour on a nature walk. Bye." With that she was off.

"Goodbye," Roarke replied, watching her go with some bemusement.

"Busy, busy, busy," commented Tattoo.

"More practice for the B&B," said Leslie with a grin, and that earned her an agreeable chuckle from her guardian as the car drew up.

§ § § - November 28, 1981

"Mr. Roarke!" Julie exclaimed, rushing up to them. "I've been invited to a seminar on the wildlife of the island!"

"Really!" said Roarke, impressed. "Why, I didn't know you were interested in wildlife, my dear Julie!"

"Well, I—" Something caught Julie's eye as she was trying to look modest, and the others' gazes followed. Standing in the lane were three good-looking, athletic young men, all blond, tall and trim; they were chatting idly, as if waiting for something. Julie licked her lips, with an anticipatory look on her face; then she turned, saw their expressions and stammered, "Oh…those are the professors giving the seminar."

"Sure they are," Leslie retorted, grinning knowingly.

"You better make sure about what kind of 'wildlife' they're gonna teach you," Tattoo advised her, earning himself a black glare from Julie that made Leslie laugh.

Roarke said, "I suppose it would be all right, provided Tattoo and Leslie are willing to cover for you."

"Oh, I know they're willing," Julie exclaimed and blew them both a kiss. "Thanks!" Without further ado, she pelted off to join the three men in the lane.

"There goes some nerve," Leslie said, still laughing.

"But boss!" Tattoo began to protest, but Roarke shushed him and winked at Leslie, knowing full well that his ward would take any opportunity to fill in for Julie.

"Come on, Tattoo, you're always leering after the native girls," Leslie pointed out as they settled themselves into the rover. "Let Julie have her fun."

Tattoo stared at her in disbelief, then at Roarke. "Is that why you let her go?" he demanded, outraged. "Because of _that?"_ Roarke cleared his throat, and Leslie mouthed _bingo!_ at Tattoo, who folded his arms over his chest and grumped all the way to the plane dock.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"Julie MacNabb Callaghan!" Rogan burst out, looking genuinely shocked.

"Hey, I was a healthy red-blooded female, just like anybody else," Julie shot back, turning up her nose. "And I'm sure you chased your share of pretty girls, Rogan Callaghan, so you can just drop the Mr. Priss act."

"I'm surprised you weren't drooling after those men yourself, my Rose," Christian teased his wife.

"I was sixteen years old, for fate's sake," Leslie said, rolling her eyes. "Not that I didn't appreciate the guys, but I had too little experience, and most of that came from the boys I was in school with. And none of them really paid much attention to me. Word had probably gotten around that I was never available for weekend dates, thanks undoubtedly to Hachiro Tokita after I turned him down during my first weeks here."

Laughter greeted that, and Christian grinned in understanding. "That's reasonable," he said, "knowing what I do about your history with Hachiro. And Julie, you surprise me; I thought you were so devoted to duty that you didn't have time for dates."

Julie shrugged and flipped her hands into the air, palms up. "I just couldn't resist," she said impishly, and they all laughed again.

"This is gross," Rory announced stridently. "C'mon, Mom, I wanna hear more."

"I think we can oblige you, young man," Leslie teased. "What about this?"

§ § § - December 5, 1981

"Mr. Roarke?" Julie's voice called from across the lawn, and the threesome stopped and waited for her to catch up. After exchanging greetings, she went on, "Would you mind very much if I didn't come to the plane with you today?"

"Why?" Roarke asked.

"Well, Tattoo asked me to locate a horse, for Miss Talbert's fantasy," Julie said.

"Talbert?" Leslie repeated blankly.

Recognition crossed Roarke's features. "Ah yes, Miss Talbert, who wishes to lead the Charge of the Light Brigade," he said, slanting a glance at Tattoo.

"Boss, she's over three hundred pounds!" Tattoo reminded him direly.

Roarke looked grave. "You're absolutely right, Tattoo…a three-hundred-pound woman doesn't sound like a 'light' brigade, does she?" He ignored Leslie's groan, but Julie sneaked her a thumbs-up of agreement. But Tattoo just shook his head, and Roarke went on, "I'm certain the horse would agree. Well, Julie…continue your quest, and report all progress to me, huh?"

"Oh, I will, Mr. Roarke," Julie promised, her tone indicating that she expected to fail spectacularly. Leslie watched her go as she followed Roarke and Tattoo to the car.

"You know, Mr. Roarke, that's an impossible assignment," she said finally, once the car was rolling. "No horse could hold someone that heavy. Why don't you just, well, conjure one up? Julie'll never find a real-life horse to fit the bill."

Roarke gave her such a look that she blinked. Tattoo advised gently, "I wouldn't ask him stuff like that if I were you, Leslie. Besides, he doesn't have time."

"For a fantasy?" Leslie exclaimed in disbelief.

"Do you realize how much energy and resources it would take up for me to 'conjure up', as you say, a horse large and sturdy enough to carry more than three hundred pounds?" Roarke retorted. "That will close the subject." Which it did, though as far as Leslie was concerned, all he had done was raise even more questions.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"Did you ever find that horse?" Miranda asked.

"No," said Julie through a sigh. "I felt awful."

"Which meant that Father had to conjure up one after all," Leslie put in, grinning at an astonished Christian. "Boy, let me tell you, over just that one weekend, that animal ate so much hay, they ran out at the island stables and had to have some shipped in from Hawaii. And unless I miss my guess, Father, wasn't there once a little creek that ran past that area? There isn't anymore." She smirked.

Rory fell for it. "Wow," he gasped, "you mean that horse drank up the whole creek? Gee whiz! It must've been the size of a blue whale!"

"Close," said Roarke, setting off laughter. "Leslie finally understood my objections to the effort and resources involved. Oh…and speaking of animals…"


	16. Chapter 16

§ § § - January 9, 1982

Julie came from a different direction this time, they noticed, when she approached them on their way to meet the rover. Her morning greeting was too bright to be believed; and she was holding something behind her back.

"Julie," Roarke admonished sternly, "didn't I ask you to air-express that box to the San Diego Zoo?"

"That's the problem," Julie complained. "You should've told me what was in the box."

"Don't tell me you opened it!" Roarke exclaimed.

"Uh-oh," Tattoo muttered.

"What was in it?" Leslie asked.

Flustered and upset, Julie shot her a look. "Well, how was I supposed to know it was full of live Fantasy Island butterflies?" Before anyone could speak, Julie saw something over Roarke's shoulder and gasped. "Oh—there goes one now!" She dashed across the walk in pursuit of a bright-winged insect, wielding a butterfly net.

"Julie," Roarke began, "we—" He broke off, since all Julie's attention was on the escaping butterfly. Tattoo, watching her go, began chuckling heartily, which in turn caused Leslie to break into laughter. Roarke threw him a quelling look that quieted him, and Leslie clapped a hand over her own mouth, but couldn't quite stop giggling.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"That really wasn't very nice, my Rose," Christian said, though he was grinning.

Leslie caught Julie's disgruntled expression and protested laughingly, "Hey, I wasn't laughing at you, Julie—I was laughing at Tattoo's reaction." She was booed down, but in a playful manner, and threw her hands in the air in amused resignation. "Sheesh, you guys, you're awful. Well, that wasn't the last of Julie's animal problems."

§ § § - January 23, 1982

Tattoo and Leslie stopped in surprise when a native girl accosted Roarke on the front walk, whispered in his ear, and handed him a basket. Roarke nodded and gave Tattoo the basket, then turned as Julie caught up with them and offered a bright "Good morning!"

"Good morning, Julie," Roarke replied, eyeing her.

She didn't seem to recognize the undertone in his voice. "Leslie, Tattoo?"

"Hi," Leslie replied, most of her attention on the basket.

"Good morning, Julie," Tattoo said, with the same meaningful tone as his boss.

Puzzled, Julie squinted at him. "Are we going on a picnic?"

"Not exactly," Tattoo said wryly.

Roarke spoke up, "Julie, do you recall a few weeks ago, when I asked you to take care of a certain intruder the chef found in the kitchen? Remember?"

From her expression, she did. Tattoo hoisted the basket, while Leslie looked on, clueless as to what they were talking about, and added, "And he asked you to find a nice family?"

"Because you neglected to fulfill that duty," Roarke said, taking the basket back and lifting its handles aside to open the lid, "it would appear that you now have not only the mother, but four more 'intruders' to find homes for." He pulled back the lid, and the meowing heads of three kittens immediately emerged. Leslie gasped in delight. "Will you see to it, my dear Julie?" So saying, Roarke handed Julie the basket, but she was so entranced at sight of the kittens that she made no reply at all, merely bore them off, cooing over them.

Leslie stared after them, her own face as enchanted as Julie's. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, they're all so adorable!" she breathed. "Oh, I wish I could take one of them!"

"You know perfectly well why you can't," Roarke said, then caught sight of her face, filled with longing. "I'm sorry, Leslie, but you know why we can't have a cat in the house."

"Yeah, I know…we're gone too much, it'd rip up the furniture and the rugs, it'd have to be litter-box-trained…I know," she sighed. "But still…" Roarke and Tattoo, both with sympathetic looks, guided her along to the car, indulging her wistful gaze after Julie.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"Did you ever get a cat, Leslie?" Miranda asked, her own face alight.

"No, I never did. Maybe when the triplets are older…" she began, letting her eyeballs slide in Christian's direction.

He laughed, a little resignedly. "There have been cats all over the royal castle for years, thanks to Anna-Kristina. I suppose we can consider it." He pretended to groan in pain when she hugged him, but he was grinning.

Julie smiled. "Don't worry, those kittens all got good homes. Mostly they went to folks in the fishing village…rat-catchers, you know. And they'd clean up all the fish debris too." She sat back, ruffling Rory's hair. "Want a cat sometime, son?"

"No way," Rory said. "I want a dog. A really big one…like a Saint Bernard. That's way better than some silly old cat."

"Thank the fates I don't live in your house," Christian said to a groaning Rogan, not without sympathy. He chuckled. "So what else happened, then?"

§ § § - January 30, 1982

"Mr. Roarke?" Julie's voice stopped Roarke and Leslie as they headed up the front walk. They traded the usual greetings, and then she asked, "Where's Tattoo?"

"Well, it seems that one of our guests, a CPR instructor, has asked Tattoo's assistance in setting up a class," Roarke explained.

Julie nodded approval, and Leslie remarked, "That explains why he left the breakfast table in such a hurry."

"Yes," Roarke agreed. "Oh, there is the instructor now." He pointed, and across the lane, walking briskly on its shoulder, they could see a very attractive brunette nurse.

"I bet she's big on mouth-to-mouth resuscitation," Julie cracked, folding her arms over her chest. Leslie giggled loudly.

"Julie!" Roarke admonished, and headed for the car. Leslie poked the older girl in the side and favored her with the A-OK sign.

"Don't pay any attention to Mr. Roarke," she whispered. "Solange or no Solange, that doesn't stop Tattoo from looking." Julie grinned, and they trailed Roarke to the car.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"Even after he was seeing Solange?" Rogan asked, amazed.

"Even married men look, Rogan," Roarke said, and Rogan cleared his throat, while Josh and Christian exchanged looks. Leslie, Julie and Miranda looked at each other and then at their respective husbands; Christian spoke first.

"You know perfectly well that if and when I look, it's because the woman in question is a customer at the office," he said, hiking a brow.

Leslie grinned. "Well, that's true," she conceded. "Anyway…this is the last one we had before Julie counted up her stash and decided she had enough to get her business going. It was probably a good thing, considering what happened."

§ § § - May 8, 1982

"Good morning, Tattoo," Roarke and Leslie returned the Frenchman's greeting, and Roarke added, "Have you seen Julie?"

"Well, she's having a problem with Mr. Austin's fantasy," Tattoo said.

Roarke looked puzzled, and Leslie provided, "That's the guy who wanted to spend the weekend being invisible."

"Ah, yes," Roarke said, and glanced into the sky as usual. Tattoo murmured confirmation, then spotted something and gaped. Roarke and Leslie saw it almost simultaneously: a pair of belted blue pants and shiny brown shoes, crossing the lane some distance away. "I suppose that is Mr. Austin… Yes, it would appear that Julie _is_ having a little problem."

"Half a problem," Tattoo opined.

Roarke awarded him a disgusted look. "Half a—" he began, then dismissed it and strode to the rover. Tattoo looked at Leslie, who shrugged and grinned.

§ § § - September 2, 2006

"Well, it _was_ half a problem," Julie said in self-defense, over the others' laughter. "Tattoo was right, uncle! Took me half the day to figure out how to fix it."

"At least you did fix it, that's the main thing," Josh pointed out, and Roarke finally conceded the point, joining in the merriment.

Then Miranda yawned, and Josh sat up. "Feeling okay, honey?" he asked.

She smiled. "Of course…but I have to admit I'm tired. After all, I just had surgery. If it's all right, uncle, Josh and I will go on back to his hotel room."

"Of course, of course," Roarke agreed, rising along with the other men, Julie and Leslie. It took some time for everyone to exchange their goodnights, particularly in the face of Rory's protests, but Roarke reminded the boy that he and Leslie had fantasies to work on the next morning, and needed their sleep. When the house was quiet, Christian stifled a yawn of his own and laid a hand on his wife's back.

"I have to admit to a nagging question, Mr. Roarke," he said, pausing near the stairs to the second floor. "I don't expect it's much of my business, but I can't help being curious. In view of all the little mistakes Julie made with assorted fantasies through that year, how many refunds did you have to pay out?"

"Christian, my love, that's a little bit crass, don't you think?" Leslie scolded, amused.

"You're only fortunate that you had the good sense to wait until Julie had left here before you decided to ask me that," Roarke added, and Christian exploded into laughter, bidding his father-in-law good night and escorting Leslie up the steps. Roarke watched them go, reflecting that it was probably also fortunate for Christian's continued good health that he had let the question remain rhetorical…

* * *

_These are the fantasies I adapted for this story:_

"_Cyrano / The Magician", original airdate October 24, 1981; with Bart Braverman as Timothy Potter; Carol Lynley as Marjorie Denton; Lloyd Bochner as the Marquis de Sade; John Saxon as Cyrano de Bergerac/Bertrand Sabbatier; and Judy Landers as Suba_

"_Mr. Nobody / La Liberatora", original airdate November 7, 1981; with Charo as Dolores de Murcia (you guessed right, Lady Marianne!), Sherman Hemsley as Charlie Atkins; Vernée Watson as Carrie Wilson; H.B. Haggerty as Sampson Smith; Keenan Wynn as Willie; and Herb Edelman as Sampson's manager_

"_A Very Strange Affair / The Sailor", original airdate January 2, 1982; with Hans Conried as J.D. Stoneman; Arlene Golonka as Elaine Price; Dick Smothers as Ron Price; Shelley Smith as Miss Harbinger; Florence Henderson as Laura Miles; Peter Graves as Captain van Hoortman; and Brett Halsey as Bill Baines_

"_A Face of Love / Image of Celeste", original airdate March 20, 1982; with Erin Gray as Laura Jensen; Monte Markham as Ron Martin; Larry Manetti as Marty Downs; Joanna Pettet as Celeste Vallon; Robert Goulet as Paul Gauguin; Dane Clark as Celeste's father; and Christopher Stone as André_

"_Forget-Me-Not / The Quiz Masters", original airdate April 10, 1982; with Gene Rayburn as Bob Barclay; Jan Murray as Ron Ellison; Vikki Carr as Lois Terry; Jill St. John as Ellen Layton; Brett Halsey as Charles Layton; and Richard Gautier as Mike Collins_

_I need to go through some ideas and look for something likely for the next story, but I promise I will be back again, so stay tuned! Thanks as always for all your welcome reviews._


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